Murder at Downton Abbey
by dustnik
Summary: Set in 1926. When a guest is murdered at Downton Abbey, the famous Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, is called in to solve the case. Ensemble piece.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: After touring Highclere Castle, I realize that I misjudged the geography of the rooms and greatly underestimated the remoteness of the home itself. I don't know how to fix this here without rewriting the entire story, as these were such pivotal plot points, so please, overlook these errors.**

* * *

1926 dawned cold and snowy in the small Yorkshire village of Downton. Most of the village and all the surrounding land as far as the eye could see belonged to the Crawley family. Their ancestral home was Downton Abbey, a Jacobethan mansion of immense size and stature where the family had resided for centuries. Outside its doors, the wind howled, and the snow swirled about, forming deep drifts. Inside, the house was warm and dry, heated by cozy fires lit by harried housemaids.

Robert, the seventh Earl of Grantham, felt restless that winter. Since his brush with death the previous year after a burst ulcer, he was no longer in charge of the day-to-day running of the estate. That task fell to his headstrong daughter, Lady Mary Talbot, and widowed son-in-law, Tom Branson. It made him feel old and useless. Even his wife, Cora, had her work at the hospital. Instead of resenting her position as he once did, he found himself envying it very much. He knew he needed to find something to do.

It was then that he revisited the idea of erecting a large housing development on the edge of the village on a parcel of land known as Pip's Corner. Mary and Tom had initially supported the plan but later balked at the cost of going forward with the project. Robert would have to find the capital somewhere else. He pitched his idea to an interested Duke of Crowborough at their London club when he was in town for one of his regimental dinners. They discussed the plan at great length, with Robert later posting him all the details. The Duke agreed to finance the project, and construction began at the site early that spring.

Before the war, the Duke had once been an honored houseguest at the Abbey. At the time, it was believed he was planning to make an offer of marriage to Mary, but upon learning that the estate and the bulk of the money were entailed away from the eldest Crawley daughter, he abruptly changed his mind and departed. It left her broken-hearted and humiliated and her parents furious, but now that he and Robert were working together, it seemed better to leave all that in the past.

One late spring afternoon, the Earl was seated in the library with his dog, Tiaa, on the floor at his feet when his wife strolled in. He was startled and jumped slightly, causing her to remark, "Goodness! I hope I haven't interrupted some deep thought."

He smiled lovingly up at her. "I was just about to take a walk to Pip's Corner and see how the building is coming along. Would you care to join me?"

"Actually, I'm busy organizing a little house party for the weekend. Edith and Bertie are driving down, and your sister has agreed to come. We'll have a big dinner while they're here and invite Isobel and Dickie and Mama. It will be like old times."

Robert nodded his approval. "The Duke has been anxious to see the progress being made in the village. We must invite him as well."

Cora frowned. "Are you sure, darling? Wouldn't it be better to stick to family and friends?"

"Nonsense. We'll ask him too." He called to Tiaa, "Come, girl."

* * *

Thomas Barrow listened attentively as Lord Grantham detailed the plans for the coming weekend. "This will be your first big event as the butler, Barrow. I hope it won't prove too much for you."

"I think I'm up to it, m'lord," the younger man replied, flashing a broad smile meant to convey confidence. He wished everyone would stop treating him like he was made of glass. He had survived a suicide attempt the previous year, committed after losing his place at the Abbey. He reluctantly accepted another post nearby but gratefully returned when he was offered the position of butler.

The Earl was studying him closely. "Why don't you ask Carson to help you? He'll know how to manage things."

The last thing Barrow wanted was the previous butler looking over his shoulder. "There's really no need to bother—"

"I think it's best," Robert insisted.

Thomas knew when he was beaten. "Yes, m'lord." He glowered as he made his way downstairs to the servants' hall where Miss Baxter, Lady Grantham's maid, sat nibbling on a slice of bread and jam.

She rose automatically at his entrance. "You look like you could use this," she observed ruefully, pouring him a steaming cup of tea.

"His Lordship wants Mr. Carson to oversee their house party. Apparently, he doesn't think I'm capable."

"I'm sure that's not the reason." The kind-hearted woman offered him a warm smile. "He probably doesn't want you to take too much on yourself."

"Why? Because I'm fragile and weak and might try to top myself again if things go wrong?" He knew he shouldn't be taking his frustration out on her. She had proven herself a loyal friend, being the one to save his life. "I'm sorry. It's not your fault."

"Be patient, Mr. Barrow. Give it time."

Thomas had a sudden idea. "Do you think Mr. Molesley would help us out this weekend?" The former footman, now a teacher at the village school, had expressed a willingness to don his livery again, if needed, for large parties and the like.

"He might. You could ask him."

"I bet he'd come if you asked him," Barrow remarked with a knowing grin.

Miss Baxter blushed. "Don't be silly." She rose from her chair, unable to look him in the eye. "I'd better get on."

Later, he and the young footman, Andy, were serving tea in the library to the assembled family members. The conversation was centered on the upcoming house party. Cora explained, "Edith and Bertie will be driving down on Friday and should arrive in time for tea. Rosamund said she'd call back with her train time. I've asked Mama and Isobel and Dickie to join us for dinner on Saturday." She turned to her husband. "When did the Duke say he'd get here?"

There was a loud clink of china as Mary's cup rattled in her saucer. "What?"

Cora offered her an apologetic smile. "I was going to tell you. We've asked the Duke to come. Your father wants to show him the progress being made at Pip's Corner."

"You can't be serious. It's bad enough that Papa has gone into business with the wretched man. Now you've invited him to stay here?"

Tom Branson seemed confused by his sister-in-law's vehemence. "Who's this we're talking about?"

Robert explained, "The Duke of Crowborough. I told you—my partner in the building project." He turned to Mary's husband, Henry Talbot. "He'd be about your age. You must have come across him somewhere."

Henry's face darkened. "I believe we have met, but it was many years ago now."

Barrow, standing at attention, felt like he might faint.


	2. Chapter 2

Charles Carson arrived early on Friday to discuss his plans for the weekend with Barrow, much to the younger man's dismay. "I think we'll serve the Margaux tonight and save the Château Chasse-Spleen for tomorrow when the Dowager is here. You'll want to decant that at least two hours before they eat. I can't pour, of course, but I'll be there to keep an eye on things."

"Yes, Mr. Carson." Thomas was perfectly capable of managing on his own and found it all rather demeaning.

"Have you instructed Mr. Molesley and Andrew on the correct way to address the Duke?" Before Barrow could reply, the former butler added, "And make sure Andrew's hair is combed properly. We can't have him looking like a young hobbledehoy."

"Yes, Mr. Carson," Thomas repeated with a sigh.

* * *

The Marquess and Marchioness of Hexham were the first to arrive that afternoon with little Marigold in tow. Lady Hexham, the former Edith Crawley, was the middle daughter of the family; the youngest, Sybil, died in childbirth. She had recently married Bertie Pelham and begun a new life away from Downton. The couple made their home in Northumberland in a palatial residence called Brancaster Castle with Edith's "ward," Marigold. In reality, the little girl was her daughter, a fact known within the family and strongly suspected by several of the servants. Upon her arrival, the child was promptly dispatched to the nursery to join her cousins, Sybbie Branson and George Crawley, the heir presumptive to the title and estate.

Andy, and the one remaining hallboy, Billy, were assigned the task of unloading the luggage under the watchful eye of Mr. Barrow. The butler was determined that nothing should go wrong that weekend.

A chauffeured car was dispatched to the train station and returned with Lady Rosamund. She greeted her brother and his family enthusiastically before they all filed back inside. Later, the car returned to the station for the Duke of Crowborough. The family members and the servants were assembled out front to welcome him. He appeared much altered since his last visit. His hair was thinning, and he had put on considerable weight. He immediately sought out his hostess. "Thank you for your invitation, Lady Grantham. It was very kind of you."

Cora managed a stiff smile. "Not at all. We were happy you were available on such short notice. You know my daughters, but I don't believe you've met the others." She indicated a well-dressed, middle-aged woman. "Lady Rosamund Painswick, His Lordship's sister."

He acknowledged her with a polite nod.

"This is Tom Branson. He was Sybil's husband."

"Tom." He held out his hand.

"And this is Lord Hexham, Edith's husband."

"Oh—call me Bertie." The new Marquess seemed unable to meet the Duke's eye.

"You must be Peter's heir. I heard about his death in Tangiers. What a tragedy."

"Yes. Yes, it was," Bertie mumbled.

Cora continued, "And finally, there's Mary's husband, Henry Talbot."

There was no disguising the look of animosity on Henry's face. The Duke explained, "We were at Oxford together."

Cora attempted to cover the awkwardness. "Shall we go inside?"

Crowborough fixed Lord Grantham with an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid I'm here without a valet again. They never seem to stay these days."

Robert appealed to Thomas. "That won't be a problem, will it?"

"Certainly not, m'lord."

The Duke made a show of recognition. "I remember you. You served me before. Thomas, isn't it?"

"Yes, but it's Barrow now, Your Grace. I'm the butler here."

A momentary look of surprise flashed across the nobleman's face. "Perhaps a footman then?" He indicated Andy who was standing at attention.

Thomas' eyes narrowed. "I will see to Your Grace myself."

When they were inside, the Duke asked, "Is there somewhere I could freshen up? The train was so horribly dusty."

"Yes. Of course." Robert turned to Thomas. "Barrow?"

Thomas nodded obligingly. "If you'd care to follow me, I can show you to your room."

The guest accompanied him upstairs to the bachelors' corridor while Andy and Billy brought up the luggage. He dropped down on the bed, watching as the capable butler unpacked his cases, placing the smaller items in the bureau and the larger ones in the wardrobe. "How have you been, Thomas? We haven't seen each other since before the war. It must be thirteen—no, fourteen years now."

"I'm quite well, Your Grace."

"You can still call me Philip when we're alone. After all, we're old friends you and I."

Barrow didn't reply, keeping his expression purposely blank.

"So you're a butler now. When we met, you were still a lowly footman, but then you always were the ambitious type, weren't you?" He reached out for Thomas' gloved hand. "What's this?"

The butler pulled away. "I was wounded in the war."

"You served? Very brave of you. Unfortunately, I was excused—on medical grounds." He carefully studied the other man. "You're getting old, Thomas."

Barrow looked him up and down and let out a derisive snort.

The Duke nodded. "Yes, I know. I've gotten fat, and my hair is falling out, but what can I do? It comes with being married. I really can't recommend it."

"So you're married now," Thomas observed with amusement. "Who's the lucky lady?"

"Her name is Catherine. She's the only child of Lord Atherton. Scads of money but not much else, I'm afraid. Still, she did give me two healthy heirs, Edwin and Cyril, both lovely little chaps."

"And you're a father too. How did you manage the conceptions?"

"That's what alcohol is for, and I can still fantasize about our times together in London."

"Why isn't the Duchess with you?"

"When I'm in the country, she prefers to be in town, and when I'm in town, she prefers the country. We find the arrangement suits us both." He paused, striking a seductive pose. "Will you come to me tonight?"

"You must be joking."

"Then perhaps you could send up that luscious, young footman." He added slyly, "Unless you're keeping him all to yourself."

"For God's sake, he's just a lad," Thomas hissed before slipping out the door. He returned to the servants' hall for his tea in time to see Molesley arrive.

The former servant had come directly from school when class let out and was somewhat breathless. "I came as quickly as I could."

Thomas had a sudden idea. "Mr. Molesley, I know I asked you here as a footman, but I wonder if you'd mind seeing to the Duke too while he's here. Mr. Bates is attending Lord Hexham as well as His Lordship, and I remembered that you're a trained valet."

The quiet, modest man appeared flattered. "Why, I'd be happy to, Mr. Barrow. I'll just go change into my livery."

Thomas smiled to himself, imagining the Duke's reaction upon seeing the balding, middle-aged academic at his door.


	3. Chapter 3

Dinner that night passed without incident. Afterward, the women went through to the drawing room for coffee while the men remained behind with their brandy and cigars.

The Duke turned to Henry. "What kind of work do you do?"

"I sell second-hand cars."

The nobleman chuckled. "Surely not."

"Does that surprise you?"

Tom jumped in. "It's true. Henry and I started a business together in York—Talbot and Branson Motors. It's not much now, but in time, we hope to open a proper dealership and maybe even go into production."

The Duke was astounded. "What does Lady Mary think about it?"

Tom answered for them both. "She couldn't be prouder."

Crowborough then turned his attention to Bertie. "How do you like living at Brancaster? I spent many happy times there as a guest of your cousin. How is it we never met?"

"Before Peter's death, I was only the estate agent."

Tom pretended to be affronted. " _I'm_ an estate agent."

Bertie explained, "I didn't mean it like that. Cousin Peter was kind to offer me the position, and I enjoyed it very much. It suited me."

The Duke was stunned into silence. Second-hand car salesmen and estate agents. These were Grantham's sons-in-law?

Robert interrupted his reflections. "We'll take a walk over to the building site in the morning."

"I'm anxious to see it. I like to know what I'm paying for."

The Earl frowned and threw back his brandy. "We should rejoin the ladies."

When they entered the drawing room, the women were discussing Lady Mary's pregnancy. The Duke was quick to congratulate her. "Is it your first?"

Mary pursed her lips haughtily. "My first with Henry. I have a son, George, by my late husband, Matthew. He's the heir to his grandfather's title and estate."

The Duke then turned to Lady Hexham. "And what about you?"

Edith blushed. "Bertie and I are only recently married, but we do hope to have a family someday."

Mary rose to her feet. "I'm feeling rather tired. I'm afraid I must say goodnight."

* * *

Henry followed her up the main staircase to their room on the gallery, closing the door behind them. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm perfectly fine. I just couldn't sit there and make small talk with that odious man."

"You never told me how you met."

Mary explained, "It was before the war when I was still quite young. He was a guest at my coming-out ball, and we shared several dances together. We saw each other at various parties after that, and he seemed to be very taken with me."

"Were you taken with him?"

"Well, I was taken with the idea of becoming a duchess anyway. He wrote to Mama inviting himself to stay. I thought—we all thought—that he was coming here to propose. He spoke with Papa, but when he found out the estate and fortune were entailed away, he changed his mind. You see, it wasn't me he wanted. It was the money all along. It was so humiliating, and if that weren't bad enough, I had to put up with Edith's crowing."

"I'm so sorry, darling, but I think you should consider yourself lucky to be shot of him."

"How do you know him?"

"We were in the same year at Oxford. Philip and I were friends back then before—" He stopped abruptly.

"Go on," she urged.

"I never told you this. I don't know why really. There was an incident while we were there—a scandal. Someone had managed to get their hands on a copy of an important test before the day of the exam. It was passed around to a small group of mediocre students who all produced spectacular papers. The professor became leery and reported the suspected cheating. The matter was brought to the attention of the honor council, and there was an inquiry. Their investigation seemed to be closing in on Philip and two of his friends, but we were all forced to testify before the conduct board. I couldn't tell them anything because I knew nothing about it. I earned my good grade honestly."

"Of course, you did," Mary agreed loyally.

"Philip came to my room to discuss the situation. He was worried that he might be expelled if the council believed him to be guilty. As his father's heir, he would be disgraced. He seemed very upset and asked for a glass of water. I thought nothing more of it until the next day when several members of the board unexpectedly showed up to search my room. Having nothing to hide, I agreed, if only to prove I had no part in the affair. They rifled through my bureau and found the copy of the test under a pile of clean shirts. They turned to me for an explanation, but I had none to give them. I knew it hadn't been there the morning before when I put the shirts away."

Mary looked shocked. "It was the Duke. He was the one who stole the exam paper."

"I don't know if he was the one who took it, but he was certainly the one who planted it in my drawer when I was getting him the water. I tried to defend myself, but they didn't believe me. They were planning to expel me until my father came down from London to reason with them. In the end, I was found guilty of academic misconduct and put on probation. My reputation was ruined, and my plan to follow in my father's footsteps as a Member of Parliament was over."

She put her arms around her husband. "How terrible for you. Everyone thought you had done it."

"One older boy believed my story, having had his own run-ins with Philip. It was Charlie Rogers."

"Good old Charlie," Mary lamented. The racing car driver had been killed in a fiery crash the previous year.

"So there you have it. If it weren't for the Duke, you might have been married to an MP."

"I'm not complaining." She kissed her husband tenderly. "Now let me ring for Anna, so we can go to bed."

* * *

In the drawing room, the family and their guests were just finishing their drinks and making their way upstairs. The valets and lady's maids were sent for while Barrow and Carson returned to the servants' hall, leaving Andy to collect the empty glasses. The housekeeper was waiting to accompany her husband back to the cottage they shared on the estate. "How did it go?" she asked him.

"Fine, Mrs. Hughes. As you know, the key is in the planning." Mr. Carson turned to Thomas. "Don't worry. I'll be back tomorrow."

Thomas managed a weak smile. After everyone was tucked away for the night, he made one final tour of the gallery. He passed Andy coming down the corridor and queried, "What are you doing up here?"

The footman appeared agitated. "Nothing, Mr. Barrow. Nothing at all. Goodnight."


	4. Chapter 4

The next day dawned unseasonably warm. After breakfast, Tom and Henry set off for York while Robert and the Duke were eager to visit the construction site. When the latter pair arrived at Pip's Corner, they saw that all work had ceased. Robert searched about for the builders, but they were nowhere to be found. The only person he saw was old Cripps, the head of the Abbey's maintenance team. The puzzled Earl was quick to address him. "Hello, Cripps. Do you know where the builders are?"

"Gone, m'lord," he answered succinctly. "Sometime during the night. All the equipment's been removed."

"What? Why?"

"I couldn't say, but I've had my doubts from the start. There was something not quite right about them."

Robert became angry. "Why didn't you speak up earlier?"

The elderly man was indignant. "Begging your pardon, but it wasn't my place to question Your Lordship's decision."

The Duke interrupted them. "Do you see any problems with the work that's been done so far?"

"The bricks are of poor quality—not fired properly, and the mortar is starting to crumble."

Robert felt sick. "We should see inside."

The three men carefully entered one of the homes where little work had been done. Cripps shook his head angrily. "They used green lumber. You can see how it's beginning to warp and split already."

"But surely it can all be repaired?" the desperate Earl inquired.

The other man shook his head sadly. "In my opinion, it will have to be torn down and rebuilt using proper materials."

"All the others too?" Robert asked weakly.

"Aye, if they're like this one, m'lord."

"Thank you, Mr. Cripps," the Duke said, effectively dismissing him. "We would appreciate it if you kept this information to yourself."

Cripps nodded an agreement and took his leave.

Robert spoke first. "I don't understand it. The builders came highly recommended."

"Did you follow up on their references?"

"Of course, I did. They even showed me one of the finished homes here, and I didn't notice anything amiss."

"They probably completed several houses properly to avoid suspicion. They would have shown you one of them."

"We'll go to the police. They'll find these men and make them return the money."

"I hope so for your sake, Grantham."

"What do you mean, 'for my sake?' "

"If you read our contract, it says I am to be repaid in full after two years when the houses are sold, plus a percentage of the profits."

"Clearly you can see that won't be possible now. I'll find a way to pay back everything you've lost, but it might take many years."

"I expect to receive the full amount I was promised on time, even if it means taking you to court." Crowborough added, "I'll see you back at the house."

After he left, Robert hurried off to the little Downton police station and filed a report. He was told that he'd been the victim of a clever gang operating throughout Britain. The scheme was always the same but usually on a much smaller scale. They would keep him informed of any developments. He wasn't anxious to return to the Abbey and found himself at the Dower House instead.

Entering the drawing room where Violet was dozing in a chair, Spratt announced loudly, "Lord Grantham."

The old woman's eyes snapped open to find her son looking very pale, his face wearing a shocked expression. "What's happened?"

Robert took a seat on the sofa, and she rose to join him. The concerned mother waited in silence for him to begin. At last, he told her the whole sorry tale, including the Duke's threat to sue him.

"How much money are we talking about?" Upon hearing the amount, her jaw dropped. "Good God! What are you going to do?"

"I don't know, Mama."

"What about the dinner tonight? Will you cancel it?"

"We'll go ahead as if nothing has happened. I don't wish everyone to know the extent of my incompetence quite yet."

The Dowager nodded her approval. "After he's gone, we'll all sit down and come up with a plan." Her expression softened as tears began to roll down her son's face. "Oh, my dear boy." She pulled him close to her, and he wept on her shoulder like a child.

* * *

Edith was seated outside the Abbey beneath an ancient cedar tree with Marigold playing at her feet. The house had been stifling hot, and even outdoors, the air hung heavy and still. She watched as the Duke of Crowborough approached them from the direction of the village. When he drew near, Edith asked, "Where's Papa?"

"I believe he had an errand to see to." He turned his attention to Marigold. "She's the spitting image of you. I should have liked to have a daughter."

Edith became flustered. "This is my ward, Marigold. My family took her in when the tenant farmer she was living with was unable to keep her any longer. She's no relation."

The Duke smiled knowingly. "Isn't she?" He nodded and continued on his way.

Edith sat in stunned silence until Bertie suddenly dropped down beside her, causing her to jump. "I hope you don't mind my joining you. You looked like you were a million miles away."

"I wish we'd never come here."

Bertie seemed puzzled. "Aren't you enjoying spending time with your family?"

"I am, but I can't wait to get home again—our home." She gazed down at her daughter. "The Duke guessed about Marigold."

"Did you tell him the truth?"

"No, why would I? Oh, I wish we could just leave. There's something wrong here. Can't you feel it?"

"We should go inside. It's nearly time for luncheon."

* * *

Later, preparations for that evening's dinner party were underway with Molesley and Andy laying the table under the critical eye of Mr. Barrow. Thomas suddenly remembered Carson's directive from the day before and started chuckling. "Oh, Andy, Mr. Carson said to make sure your hair is combed. He doesn't want you to look like a 'hobbledehoy,' whatever that is."

Instead of being amused, Andy nodded solemnly. "Yes, Mr. Barrow."

Thomas saw that something was bothering the young footman. Perhaps he'd had an argument with Daisy. He and the assistant cook had become close since the year began. "Is everything alright? You and Daisy haven't fallen out, have you?"

"Daisy? No, it's nothing like that."

Then there was something. "Mr. Molesley, would you tell Mr. Carson I'll be right down to decant the wine?"

The teacher looked surprised but obeyed wordlessly.

"Now I want you to tell me what's wrong, Andy."

Andy stared down at the floor. Finally, he mumbled, "The Duke ... "

Thomas felt his heart leap into his throat. "What about the Duke?" When he received no answer, he asked again, "What did the Duke do?"

"I don't want to talk about it." The lanky footman slipped past him and hurried out of the dining room. Thomas suddenly remembered seeing him on the gallery the night before. He had been coming from the direction of the bachelors' corridor. A terrible idea was taking shape in Barrow's mind, and his expression became grim.


	5. Chapter 5

Robert had returned to the Abbey in time for luncheon. Afterward, he hid away in the smoking room, leaving the others to manage the guests. When he didn't appear for his tea, Mr. Carson took a tray in to him, although he was unable to pour. The former butler could immediately see that something was terribly wrong. The two men had become friends of sorts during Carson's long tenure there. "Is everything alright, Your Lordship?"

"I am a fool, Carson."

"Nothing of the sort, m'lord."

"It's true. Without Lady Mary and Mr. Branson, I would have sunk this estate. I still might," he added despondently.

The loyal retainer was unsure how to help. "Has something happened?" he permitted himself to ask.

"I should never have gone into business with the Duke. He's not a good sort of man."

Carson privately agreed, still angry that Lady Mary had been denied her duchess' crown.

Robert groused, "I suppose we'll have to go through with this wretched dinner."

"I think we're in good shape with Mr. Barrow, Andrew, and Mr. Molesley to serve."

"Quite. Thank you, Carson."

The older man moved toward the door, turning once more to address the Earl. "I would do anything for this family—anything. I hope you know that, m'lord."

* * *

A car containing Dickie, Isobel, and Violet arrived at the Abbey that evening. Rosamund was quick to greet her mother with a kiss on the cheek. "How are you, Mama?"

"You'd know if you had come to see me."

Cora smiled patiently. "Mama, you remember the Duke."

Violet eyed him coldly. "Yes, we met here once before the war."

The hostess moved on quickly. "Lord and Lady Merton—the Duke of Crowborough."

The Duke nodded dutifully at the elderly couple, and Isobel fixed him with a pleasant smile. "Is there no duchess?"

"There is," he assured her, "but unfortunately, she's in town at the moment."

Robert stood silent, lost in thought, until Barrow announced, "Dinner is served, m'lady." The group filed into the large dining room. They took their assigned seats, with the butler pouring a light, white wine and the footmen following with cold and hot hors d'oeuvres.

Rosamund spoke to Edith across the table. "There's to be a meeting of the Hillcroft trustees next month. Will you be able to come?"

"What's this?" the Duke inquired politely.

Rosamund explained, "My niece and I are on the board of Hillcroft College. It's a school for young women from modest backgrounds. They are doing wonderful work there."

"Goodness!" he exclaimed. "I wonder that Lady Hexham can find the time what with running Brancaster and caring for her 'ward.' " He gave the last word a slight emphasis, causing Bertie to turn to him and frown.

The dinner continued through the ten courses in a rather subdued fashion. The heat was oppressive, but there was a current of something else running just beneath the surface. Little pools of conversation sprang up here and there but quickly dried up. Finally, Cora announced, "I think we'll go through."

As the women stepped away from the table, Robert told the party. "I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me. I'm not feeling very well."

Cora became immediately concerned. "What's wrong, darling? Please, say it isn't your stomach. Do you want to send for Dr. Clarkson?" Mr. Carson too looked worried.

"It's only a headache. I'm sure it will be gone in the morning."

Cora sensed that something unpleasant had occurred between her husband and the Duke. He hadn't been himself since their walk to the village. "Then I don't think we'll split tonight," she told the others, leading everyone back to the drawing room. Molesley and Andy served coffee while Carson and Barrow looked on.

Dickie seemed eager to hear about Henry and Tom's flourishing car business. "I keep meaning to get over there to see it for myself, but I never do."

The Duke looked amused. "You sound as if you envy them, Lord Merton."

"I do, by golly. I head the board of charitable donors for the hospital now, but I would have liked to do a proper job. When I was young, I wanted to study medicine, but my father didn't think it an appropriate profession for a gentleman."

"No, indeed."

"How do you spend your time, Duke?" Isobel asked.

"I travel—America, Berlin, Tangiers."

Bertie gave him a strange, sideways glance.

Henry rose to join his wife on a small settee. "You've been very quiet tonight."

"I can't stand having to sit here with that horrible man, knowing what he did to you. It's too much to bear."

On the other side of the room, Cora, Rosamund, and Violet were huddled together speaking in hushed tones. "What's the matter with my dear brother?" Rosamund inquired. "We've hardly seen him all day."

Cora frowned. "I'm not sure. I think it might have something to do with the housing project he's working on with the Duke."

"But I thought everything was going well there."

Violet snapped at her daughter, "Perhaps things have changed."

Cora turned to her mother-in-law suspiciously. "Do you know something I don't know?"

"Of course not. What could I know?"

Later, Barrow poured out small glasses of whiskey, and Molesley and Andy distributed them to the family and their guests. The Duke smiled slyly at Andy as he reached for his glass, setting it on the little table beside him.

Suddenly, the sound of a deafening impact was heard outside. Tom Branson was the first to reach an open window. "There's been an accident." He and Henry hurried out to the scene while everyone looked on, the family and friends at one large window, the menservants at the other. Slowly they returned to their seats and their stations.

"Heavens! I hope no one is hurt," Cora fretted.

At last, Henry returned. "A young man was driving too fast, lost control of his car, and crashed through the gate—drunk, I'm afraid. Tom is giving him a ride down to the village where he'll put up at the pub. That's all we can really do tonight."

The Duke rose with the remainder of his whiskey in hand. "I'm feeling a bit tired. I think I'll just take this with me and slip away. Goodnight."

Barrow indicated to Molesley to accompany him.

"Yes, I think we're ready to leave too," the Dowager announced. She and Isobel and Dickie rose and made their farewells.

* * *

The next morning, Molesley returned to the Abbey for breakfast. It felt strange to fall back into his old routine after beginning a new career as a teacher and living alone in his own cottage. He couldn't wait to tell his students how he had spent the weekend attending a real duke. After their meal was over, he made his way upstairs with a tea tray while Barrow and Andy waited in the kitchen to carry up the breakfast items to the dining room. The young footman appeared pale and ill, prompting Thomas to inquire, "Are you alright, Andy? If you're not feeling well, I can manage with Mr. Molesley today."

"I'm fine, thank you."

Just then, Molesley hurriedly reappeared looking shocked and distraught. "You'd better come upstairs, Mr. Barrow."

"Why? What is it?"

"It's the Duke. He's dead."


	6. Chapter 6

Dr. Clarkson was puzzled as he examined the corpse. It was clear from the overpowering presence of vomit and excrement that the Duke had been violently ill before he died. The medical man could provide no cause of death without an autopsy. In due course, Grassby's from Thirsk was called out to remove the body. The family was stunned by the death. They huddled together in the drawing room, unable to believe the news. It reminded them of another Sunday morning before the war when a Turkish diplomat had also been found dead in his room. Cora turned to her husband, "Did you get hold of the Duchess?"

"She's still away in London, but I spoke with the butler. He offered to break the news. He thought it might be better coming from someone she knows."

"Quite right," Cora agreed. "How terrible for her and the children. He was such a young man."

"And Clarkson really has no idea what killed him?" Mary inquired anxiously.

"He says not. Apparently, there will have to be an autopsy."

Rosamund neatly summed up the whole affair in her usual succinct way. "How sad."

* * *

The autopsy was performed the following morning. Later, a local policeman, Sgt. Willis, arrived at the Abbey accompanied by a Scotland Yard inspector, James Japp. They met with the assembled family in the drawing room. Willis began nervously, "We've received the results of the autopsy performed on the Duke of Crowborough."

"Do they know how he died?" Robert asked.

"It seems he ingested a large amount of arsenic shortly before his death. It looks like he was poisoned."

"Poisoned?" everyone repeated in unison.

Insp. Japp broke in. "There will be an inquest, but for now, we're treating this as a murder." The family members all wore identical expressions of shocked disbelief. He continued, "We'll need to speak to everyone who was here on Saturday evening."

Cora found her voice first. "We were all here. Lord Grantham's mother and Lord and Lady Merton joined us for dinner."

"How might we contact them?"

"They're just in the village," Sgt. Willis informed him.

"Very good. We'd like to begin by questioning everyone individually starting with the family, and then we'll speak with the servants afterward. Is there someplace where we wouldn't be in the way?"

"I suppose you could use the library," Robert offered grudgingly. The two policemen promptly followed him out and took their positions on one of the two facing sofas there.

"As long as you're here, Lord Grantham, perhaps we could begin with you," Japp suggested. He retrieved a small notebook from his pocket.

"I don't know what I can tell you."

"How well did you know the Duke?"

"Not well. He was a member of my club in London. I'd see him there occasionally when I was in town. We became partners in a building project in the village. He came here to see how the work was progressing."

"So your relationship was strictly a business one?"

"It was now, but before the war, he was friendly with my eldest daughter and stayed here once as our guest."

"That would be Lady Mary," Sgt. Willis explained to the Inspector.

Japp continued, "Tell us about Saturday evening."

"We had dinner. My mother and a couple of our friends were invited."

"And after that?"

"I had a beastly headache and went straight up to bed. I didn't wake again until morning."

"Thank you, Lord Grantham. If we might speak to Lady Grantham now."

A few minutes later, the soft-spoken Countess entered and perched delicately on the other sofa facing the men. Japp was clearly struck by her beauty. "Please, tell us what happened on Saturday evening."

"As I said earlier, Lord and Lady Merton and Lord Grantham's mother came to dinner. When we finished, His Lordship retired to bed with a headache, and the rest of us went through to the drawing room for coffee. At the end of the evening, our dinner guests left, and we all went upstairs."

"You didn't notice anything out of the ordinary?"

"No, I don't believe so."

"Thank you. That'll be all for now."

Mary was up next. She was heavily pregnant and had to lower herself carefully onto the sofa. "Are you sure you've got it right? He was definitely poisoned?"

"Oh, there's no doubt about that, Lady Mary," Sgt. Willis assured her. Japp asked her for her recollections of Saturday evening.

"After dinner, we went through to the drawing room for our coffee like we normally do."

"Everyone was there?"

"Everyone except Lord Grantham. He had a headache and had gone up to bed."

"Did anything unusual happen?"

"There was an accident outside in the road. A drunken man crashed through the gate."

Japp looked interested. "What time did this occur?" He was writing something in his notebook.

"I'm not sure exactly, but when we went to the window to see, it was nearly dark."

"Everyone went to the window?"

"Yes. Mr. Talbot and Mr. Branson, went out to help, and we all watched for a bit."

"The servants too?"

"Yes, but they were at a different window."

Insp. Japp changed tacks. "I believe you knew the Duke before the war?"

Mary's expression turned icy. "We'd met on several occasions."

"Forgive me, but did you have a romantic attachment?"

"We danced, and we flirted at parties but nothing more."

"Yet he came here to see you."

"He came to see all of us. There was no understanding between the Duke and me, Inspector."

"Thank you, Lady Mary."

After she left, Sgt. Willis turned to his superior. "It's odd that Lady Grantham forgot to mention the accident. It must have caused a terrific racket."

"I wondered the same thing." Japp looked up to see a tall, handsome man enter the room.

"Henry Talbot at your service."

"Lady Mary's husband," Willis informed the Inspector softly.

Japp asked him to detail his memories of the evening in question. They tallied with his wife's account in every respect. "Had you met the Duke before the weekend?"

"Yes, we were at Oxford together."

"Did you like him?"

Henry seemed surprised at the question. "I liked him very much at first."

"Only at first?"

"We drifted apart, as young men that age often do."

"I think that will be all, Mr. Talbot."

He left, and Edith took his place.

"And you are?" the Inspector inquired politely.

"Lady Edith Crawley—that is, Edith Pelham—Lady Hexham now. My husband is the Marquess."

Japp noticed that she seemed nervous, a far cry from her cool and collected sister. "I believe you knew the Duke."

"We'd met, of course, but he was Lady Mary's beau, not mine."

The two men were careful not to show their surprise. "He was involved with your sister?" Japp asked.

"We all thought when he stayed here before the war that he'd come to propose, but he left early the next morning without a word."

"Was Lady Mary very upset?" The Scotland Yard Inspector was jotting furiously in his notebook.

Edith paused to remember. "I don't think so, but then my sister was never short of admirers." Her voice had taken on a bitter note. After relating her version of the evening's events, she was excused and replaced by her husband.

"You're Lord Hexham?" Japp asked.

"I still can't quite believe it myself," Bertie joked.

"Then you haven't been the Marquess for long?"

"No. I inherited the title and the estate last year when my cousin died."

"How did he die?"

"Malaria—in Tangiers."

"Lord Hexham, were you acquainted with the Duke before coming here?"

Bertie chose his words very carefully. "We'd never met. Until my cousin's death, I was merely the estate agent." He shared his recollections of Saturday's events, but they offered up nothing new. Lady Rosamund and Tom Branson told the same story. Insp. Japp closed his notebook and exchanged a curious glance with Sgt. Willis.


	7. Chapter 7

Lord Grantham descended the basement stairs to share the findings of the Duke's autopsy with his staff. The first person he encountered was a rather surprised-looking Barrow. "Is there something I can help you with, Your Lordship?"

Robert related the news to the self-possessed butler and watched a look of uneasiness spread across his face. The Earl explained, "Sgt. Willis is here, and he's brought a man from Scotland Yard with him, an Insp. Japp. They wish to speak to all of the servants individually."

"What do they want with us, m'lord? What could we tell them?"

"God knows. I think it must all be some ghastly mistake, but we have to answer their questions. They're in the library. You should probably go up now and leave me to tell the others."

Thomas nodded and climbed the stairs. He found the two officers pouring over their notes. They looked up at his arrival. "My name is Barrow. I'm the butler here."

"Please, have a seat, Mr. Barrow." The Inspector indicated the opposite sofa. "We'd like to hear the details of last Saturday evening from your perspective."

"There were twelve at dinner. I poured the wine while the footmen served the food. Afterward, we gave them coffee in the drawing room."

"When did you eat?"

Thomas smiled wryly. "We usually go down for our dinner then, but as we were entertaining a duke, I wanted everyone on hand. I had the cook make up a plate of sandwiches for us and leave it on a table behind the green baize door. We slipped away one by one to eat after the coffee was served."

"Did you hear the car crash?"

"Yes, but that was later, after we had given them their whiskey. It was almost dark when we looked outside."

"Who was on duty that night besides yourself?"

"Just the footmen, Andy—Andrew Parker—and Mr. Molesley. Mr. Carson was there too, but he didn't serve."

"Mr. Carson?"

"The previous butler. He lives on the estate and was here to oversee the house party." Thomas couldn't quite keep the resentment out of his voice.

"Mr. Molesley and Mr. Parker are downstairs?"

"Andy is, but Molesley lives in the village. He's a teacher at the school now and only came to help out for the weekend. He's actually the one who discovered the body."

"What was he doing in the Duke's bedroom?"

"I asked him to attend the Duke, as he was here without a valet of his own. Molesley was bringing him his tea in the morning when he found him dead."

"That must have been very upsetting for him," Sgt. Willis observed sympathetically.

"He was badly shaken up. I had to send him home."

Japp studied the butler carefully. "One last question, Mr. Barrow. Had you met the Duke before last weekend?"

Thomas paused imperceptibly. "I acted as his valet once before the war in London when I was still a footman and again when he visited here the following summer."

"That'll be all for now. If you would, please send up Andrew Parker."

"May I be present when you question him?"

"No, Mr. Barrow, you may not."

Thomas bobbed his head and departed.

"He's one cool customer, wouldn't you say?" Japp mused.

Sgt. Willis nodded an agreement.

Thomas returned downstairs to find the footman pacing anxiously about the servants' hall. "They're waiting to see you next."

"But why, Mr. Barrow? I don't know anything about it."

Thomas fixed him with a look of concern. "I wish you'd tell me what's bothering you." Upon receiving no response, he added, "You know I only want to help."

"I'd better go." Andy hurried up the stairs. He appeared in the library looking very young and frightened.

"We just have a few questions for you, Mr. Parker, and then you can be on your way. What did you do on Saturday evening?"

"I waited at table with Mr. Molesley, and after that, we served coffee in the drawing room."

"Did you go to the window to see the accident?"

"I think we all did."

"And when was this?"

"Later—after we gave them their whiskey."

"Who brought the Duke his whiskey?"

"I-I don't remember."

"Is there anything else you can tell us that could help with the investigation?"

"No, there's nothing. Is that it then?"

Japp looked taken aback. "Yes, for now."

Andy's face clearly showed his relief as he hurried from the room.

Sgt. Willis chuckled. "Well, he seemed eager to get away."

Anna Bates arrived next accompanied by her husband. "If you're going to question my wife, I will be with her," Mr. Bates declared protectively.

Sgt. Willis understood the husband's feelings after what the two had been put through in the last few years. Bates served a year in prison for the murder of his first wife before being exonerated and released. Later, he and Anna were suspects in the death of a valet who had thrice stayed at the Abbey. Mrs. Bates was arrested that time, but all charges were dropped when another woman confessed to the crime.

Japp too was familiar with the Green case. The botched investigation had embarrassed the entire Yard, and Insp. Vyner had gotten an official reprimand. "What were your movements on Saturday evening, Mr. Bates?"

"I dressed His Lordship for dinner, but he became unwell and sent for me early. After our dinner, I brought my baby son down from the nursery."

"Had you ever met the Duke before?"

"I had just begun working here on his last visit, but I didn't have any contact with him. Mr. Barrow saw to him."

"I wonder why a footman would be asked to see to a duke rather than a valet."

"I believe it was the Duke's own wish. He remembered Mr. Barrow from the previous summer in London when he attended him."

Insp. Japp then turned his attention to Anna. "What about you, Mrs. Bates?"

"After our dinner, I played with the baby until I was summoned to put Lady Mary to bed. Then we went back to our cottage."

"I think that's all we need for now. Thank you for your help."

Miss Baxter took their place. She seemed wary as she looked from one officer to the other. "I don't know what I can tell you. The only time I saw him was when he arrived." Before coming to Downton, she had been convicted of a jewel theft and served three years of a five-year sentence. Sgt. Willis knew the real mastermind was her accomplice who was now serving ten years on a similar charge. He would share this information with the Inspector later.

Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore, and Daisy were each shown in but had nothing new to add. As the hallboy had been away on Saturday, and the housemaids always left before tea, they were excused from the questioning. Everyone had now given their evidence, and the two men took their leave.


	8. Chapter 8

Their next stop was Crawley House to question Lord and Lady Merton. The elderly couple reacted in horror to the news that the Duke had been poisoned. "Who would want to kill that nice young man?" Isobel asked in disbelief.

"And who could have done such a thing?" her husband added.

Japp replied dryly, "That's what we're trying to find out. Do you know anything that might help us?"

"I'm afraid not. We'd never met him before that night and spoke only briefly," Dickie explained.

Isobel became curious. "What kind of poison was used?"

"Arsenic," Sgt. Willis told her.

She nodded absently. "Odorless and tasteless."

Japp looked up in surprise. "You know about poisons?"

"I trained as a nurse in the South African war."

"And I've done a bit of reading on the subject." Dickie chuckled. "Goodness! I'm afraid we're rather incriminating ourselves."

"Not at all, Lord Merton, but if you think of anything, please let us know."

The officers headed to the village school, timing their arrival to coincide with the end of the academic day. Joseph Molesley was just packing up his things when the pair entered the classroom. "Hello, Mr. Molesley," Sgt. Willis greeted him. "This is Insp. Japp from Scotland Yard. I wonder if we might ask you a few questions about Saturday night."

Japp jumped in. "It seems that the Duke of Crowborough was poisoned. As you were the last person to see him that night and the one to discover the body the next morning, we wondered what you could tell us."

The teacher had gone pale, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly. "I don't know anything about it. He was alive when I left him that night and dead when I found him the next morning."

The Inspector busily scribbled an entry in his notebook.

"I'm not a suspect, am I, Inspector?" Molesley asked anxiously.

"Until the killer is found, everyone who was in that house on Saturday evening is a suspect. Good day to you, Mr. Molesley."

The two men made their way to the Dower House where they were announced by the butler. They entered the drawing room to find Violet perched regally in an armchair. Sgt. Willis spoke first. "We're sorry to disturb you, Your Ladyship, but we're investigating the death of the Duke of Crowborough. The coroner's report indicates that he was poisoned."

"So my son informed me. Are you here to arrest me, Sergeant?"

Willis stifled a chuckle. The Dowager's dry sense of humor was legendary in the village.

"We just have a few questions to ask you," Japp replied. "How well did you know the Duke?"

"I didn't know him at all really. We met once before the war when he was staying as a guest at the Abbey. I hadn't set eyes on him again until last Saturday."

"I believe on his previous visit, there was some talk of a possible engagement between him and Lady Mary."

The old woman fixed the Scotland Yard man with an icy glare. "My granddaughter has been twice blessed in marriage, Inspector, first to my son's late heir and now to Mr. Talbot."

The men knew they were being dismissed and took their leave. "She's quite a character," Japp observed. He looked at his notebook. There was only one name left on his list—Charles Carson.

They found the older man at his cottage working in the garden. He looked up at the policemen's approach. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

After identifying himself, Insp. Japp shared the results of the autopsy with the expressionless pensioner. "You don't seem very surprised, if I may say so."

"A good servant is always in control of his emotions."

"You were the butler at the Abbey for many years."

"I'd be there still if it weren't for the shaking in my hands." Carson's face registered his regret.

"But you were asked back to supervise the house party."

"It was His Lordship's wish that I manage things. He didn't want Mr. Barrow to become overwhelmed by it all."

Japp studied the imposing man. "You are fond of the Crawley family."

Carson paused before replying. "I am devoted to them, Inspector."

"Well, I think that's all for now. Thank you, Mr. Carson."

* * *

Insp. Japp and Sgt. Willis were comparing notes at the village pub over their supper. "The coroner said that a dose of arsenic that size would cause death within a matter of hours. That means the poison must have been administered sometime on Saturday evening, at dinner or later," Willis stated.

Japp agreed. "I'm inclined to think it was in the coffee or more likely, the whiskey. It would have been difficult to put something in his food without being seen, what with everyone about."

"Then that would narrow the list of suspects to the servants. A family member or guest wouldn't have the opportunity to slip something into his drink without drawing attention to themselves."

"You're forgetting the convenient car crash."

"You think that's when it was done?"

Japp nodded sagely. "Anyone could have poisoned his drink before joining the others at the windows."

"That's good news for Lord Grantham. He was in bed by then." Willis mused, "Poor man. First, he learned he'd been swindled out of a fortune by some crooked builders, and then his home becomes the site of a murder."

"What?" The Inspector looked positively apoplectic.

"His Lordship filed a report at the station on Saturday. The so-called builders he'd hired for the housing development project in the village had run off with a great deal of money, leaving most of the work undone. We're sure it's the same gang that's been operating up and down the length of Britain."

"I don't suppose this was the same project that he was involved in with the Duke?" The Inspector couldn't believe that he was only hearing about it now.

"I guess it might be," Willis admitted sheepishly. "But it wasn't the Duke's fault. Why would Lord Grantham want to kill him?"

Japp was astounded by the local man's colossal ignorance but let it go for the time being. "Why would any of them want to kill him?"

* * *

The inquest was held the following week. The Duchess of Crowborough was there accompanied by a ridiculous-looking little man with an egg-shaped head and a huge mustache. The coroner was brought in first to reveal the results of the autopsy. It was his opinion that the Duke had died within hours of ingesting a lethal dose of arsenic oxide. The poison would cause severe stomach pains, vomiting, diarrhea, and eventual organ failure leading to death. He was followed by Dr. Clarkson who shared the findings of his initial examination on the morning the body was discovered. He was able to put the time of death sometime between midnight and three in the morning.

Several occupants of the house were called in turn beginning with Lord Grantham himself. Robert testified to his business connections with the deceased and explained why he had been invited that weekend. The Earl was followed by the male staff members who served that night. Both Carson and Barrow acquitted themselves well, answering the questions put to them calmly and succinctly. Andy was next, appearing nervous and frightened, one foot tapping a rapid rhythm on the floor. Mr. Molesley looked like he might faint as he squeaked out his replies. Mrs. Patmore and Daisy were called and asked about the preparation of the dinner. Finally, the parade of witnesses ceased, and a verdict was returned—willful murder against some person or persons unknown.


	9. Chapter 9

After the inquest was over, Robert and Cora hesitantly approached the newly widowed Duchess of Crowborough and her strange-looking escort. They wished to offer their sympathy but were acutely aware of the awkwardness of the situation. The Duchess was gracious but understandably distant. She introduced the Granthams to her companion. "This is M. Hercule Poirot, the famous private detective. He's an old friend of my father and has generously agreed to assist us in this matter. I trust you will cooperate with his investigation."

"Certainly, we will," Cora agreed quickly. "It's an honor to meet you, M. Poirot. We've followed all your cases in the newspapers."

" _Enchanté_ , madame. You are but too kind."

"I can't help thinking this has all been one huge mistake," Robert opined.

"But it can't be, can it?" the Duchess replied coolly. "Now I'm afraid you must excuse me."

Poirot remained behind. "I wonder if I might take the liberty of calling on you and your family this afternoon." They agreed on a time, and the detective took his leave with a quick bow.

Robert looked after him with a bemused expression. "What an odd little man."

* * *

Poirot was anxious to meet with the police in charge of the case, both of whom had also attended the inquest. He made his way to the Downton police station where Insp. Japp and Sgt. Willis were already gathered. Upon seeing the Scotland Yard man, Poirot was effusive in his greeting. "Ah, the good Insp. Japp! How pleasant it is to see you again."

The Inspector was somewhat less enthusiastic. "Do I take it you're here to investigate the Duke of Crowborough's death?"

"The Duchess' father has asked me to look into the matter, yes."

"I think we can handle this ourselves," Sgt. Willis informed him.

"You have discovered the identity of the murderer then, Sergeant?" Poirot inquired, his eyes twinkling.

"Not yet, but I'm sure we will soon."

"Perhaps you would be so good as to share with me the facts of the case as you know them."

Willis exchanged a doubtful look with Japp who simply shrugged his shoulders. The Inspector had previously worked with Poirot on another poisoning case, that of an elderly woman killed after ingesting strychnine. He had developed a grudging respect for the Belgian detective's "little gray cells," even if he didn't always approve of his methods. The Scotland Yard man pulled out his notebook and detailed the results of their interviews in a precise, logical manner.

When he was finished, Poirot nodded approvingly. " _Bien. Bien._ You have stated the facts most clearly."

"Right now, it could have been any of them. They all had the means to do it; there was plenty of rat poison about. But not all the servants would have had the opportunity. I think we can rule out the housekeeper, the valet, and both lady's maids, as they weren't present at the dinner or afterward in the drawing room. It doesn't seem likely that the cook or her assistant could have tampered with the Duke's food either. The dishes were served _à la russe_ on large platters for the family and their guests to help themselves. No one else was taken ill."

"That just leaves us with the question of motive. Who wanted to see him dead?" Poirot mused.

"That's the crux of it alright," the Inspector agreed.

Sgt. Willis had more pressing matters on his mind. "Time for lunch, I think."

* * *

Having rung the bell, Poirot waited patiently outside the imposing front entrance of the Abbey, only to have it opened by a tall, elegant butler. Thomas looked down his long nose disapprovingly and said, "The tradesman's entrance is around the back."

The detective appeared amused. "I am Hercule Poirot. I believe I am expected."

Barrow's usually impassive face clearly showed his surprise. "M. Poirot! I'm sorry I didn't recognize you. If you'll follow me, they're all waiting in the drawing room."

Upon being announced, Poirot was greeted by a sea of equally astonished faces. Cora attempted to cover the awkwardness with introductions. "You've already met Lord Grantham. This is our eldest daughter, Lady Mary, and her husband, Mr. Talbot. And this is our younger daughter, Lady Hexham, and her husband. They're staying on with us until this whole terrible business is settled. I'm afraid our son-in-law, Mr. Branson, is in York at the moment at his car business."

"May I offer you a drink?" Robert asked.

"Perhaps a _sirop de cassis_?"

"Uh—I'm not sure we have that."

"No matter," Poirot assured him. He looked about the room. "This is where you took your coffee and drinks on the night of the murder?" Without waiting for a reply, he walked over to the window. "Yes, I can see where the motorcar struck the gate there." The maintenance team, led by Mr. Cripps, had repaired the damage as best they could, but the new stone was of a slightly different hue. "Can I ask you to take the same seats you did on that night?"

The family members exchanged puzzled glances but obeyed. "I'm afraid I wasn't here," Robert told him. "I had a headache and went up to bed early."

"Ah, the _mal de tête_. Perhaps you would be willing to take the place of the absent Mr. Branson." The others directed him to a spot on a sofa while the detective continued, "Where was the Duke sitting?" The family indicated an overstuffed armchair next to a small side table, and Poirot lowered himself into it with a sigh. "What happened first?"

Mary took the lead. "The footmen served us our coffee as usual."

"That would be Mr. Molesley and Mr. Parker?"

"Goodness! You _have_ done your homework."

"Mr. Carson and Mr. Barrow, they were present also?"

"Yes, but they didn't serve."

"And then?"

Henry took up the narrative. "Later, we were given our whiskey, again by the footmen. There was a loud crash outside, and we all went to the windows to see what happened. A drunken man had crashed through the gate, and Mr. Branson and I went out to help. After everything calmed down, the dinner guests left, and we all went up to bed."

Poirot listened carefully. "I think I must speak to Mr. Barrow now."

Robert fought to hide his surprise. "I'll ring for him." In due course, the butler reappeared. Robert told him, "M. Poirot wishes to question you. We'll leave you to it then." The family members eagerly filed out of the room.

Thomas looked wary, but Poirot smiled kindly and invited him to sit. " _Merci_ ," Thomas replied.

"You speak the _français_ , Mr. Barrow?"

"I picked up a little in Belgium during the war."

"You served in my homeland."

"I was in Flanders. I got this there." The butler raised a gloved hand.

Poirot nodded sadly. "I too lost much during the war. When my village was destroyed, I came to England with a small group of Belgian refugees to make a new life here. Your countrymen were very kind to me, and I will always be grateful."

Thomas seemed unsure what to say to that.

Poirot noted his discomfort and changed the subject. "Tell me what happened on the night of the murder."

The butler repeated the same story as everyone else, ending with, "After the car crash, the Duke said he was tired and took his whiskey up to bed with him."

"What? Why did no one else tell me he took his drink upstairs?"

"They probably didn't think it was important." Thomas' voice implied that he agreed with them.

"Would you be so kind as to show me to the room where he died?"

Thomas led him upstairs to the bachelors' corridor to the bedroom that the Duke had occupied. "He was found lying on the floor. He might have been trying to go for help."

Poirot moved about the room opening drawers and wardrobes, looking carefully behind furniture. He even dropped to his knees to search under the bed. "Aha! The good maids have missed something." He stood up, holding out a short, white glove. "Some lady has lost this, I think."

Thomas swallowed hard. "It's not a lady's glove, monsieur. That glove belongs to a footman."


	10. Chapter 10

M. Poirot returned the following day, fighting his way through the throng of reporters and photographers gathered outside the gate. The murder of a duke in the home of an earl had succeeded in capturing the public's fertile imagination. The first person the little detective encountered when coming up the drive was Edith sitting outside on a bench watching Marigold romp in the grass. "Might I join you, Lady Hexham?" Poirot asked her.

"Of course," Edith replied politely.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the bench before sitting down. "The press, they are very determined."

"They're nothing but vultures feeding on our misfortune," Edith spoke in a tone of disgust.

"It is good of you to remain here to support your family. I believe you live in Northumberland now."

"Lord Hexham inherited the estate and the title last year after his cousin's death."

 _"Quelle chance."_

"Yes, but what people don't understand is that my husband loved Peter dearly. He was devoted to him and quite broken-hearted when he died."

"A million pardons for my thoughtlessness."

Marigold approached her mother, handing her a bouquet of wildflowers that she had picked for her. "Thank you, darling," Edith cooed to the child before she ran off again.

"The little girl is your daughter?" Poirot asked innocently.

"She is my ward."

The detective changed tacks. "Who do you think murdered the Duke?"

"It must have been one of the servants."

"Why do you say that?"

Edith paused. "Because if it wasn't one of them, it was one of us." The thought made her shiver.

* * *

Below stairs, some of the staff were congregated in the servants' hall when a familiar face appeared. It belonged to the Dowager's lady's maid, Gladys Denker. "What brings you here, Miss Denker?" Mrs. Patmore inquired gruffly.

"I just came to see how you were all holding up what with the police snooping about and reporters just outside the gate." The woman seemed to revel in their predicament.

Thomas rolled his eyes. "We're perfectly well, as you can see, Miss Denker." He and the older woman had become adversaries after he discovered her taking advantage of Andy to score free drinks at a gambling club in London. He cleverly turned the tables on her for which she hadn't forgiven him.

"I'm glad to hear it, Mr. Barrow. I wouldn't sleep a wink at night knowing that someone in this house is a cold-blooded murderer."

"Then perhaps you'd feel safer somewhere else," Thomas hinted.

The woman rose to go, fixing him with a look of disdain. "Well, maybe you're right. I'll bid you all a good day." She slipped out the back door and made her way to the front where M. Poirot was coming up the drive. "Are you the detective who's looking into the murder?"

"I am investigating the Duke's death, yes, madame."

"You might want to take a closer look at that butler."

Poirot appeared puzzled. "You have reason to suspect Mr. Barrow?"

"Oh, I know all about him." Miss Denker smiled slyly. "He's not a ladies' man, if you know what I mean."

"I see. And this makes him a murderer?"

"Well, you know what they say—the butler did it."

* * *

Poirot was seated in the library with an uncomfortable-looking Robert. "Lord Grantham, I understand there was some difficulty concerning a housing project that you were involved in with the Duke."

"Yes. The builders we hired absconded with the money, leaving only a few poorly constructed homes. The police are trying to find them."

"It was a great deal of money?"

"A very great deal."

"What was the Duke's part in the project?"

"He put up the financing. In addition to his initial investment, he was to be given a percentage of the sales."

"How could you hope to repay him when there were no houses to sell?"

Robert remained silent.

"And this he understood?"

"No. He insisted on being repaid in full after two years as stated in our contract."

"Where would that money come from?"

"Lady Mary and Mr. Branson have agreed to hire proper builders and complete the construction, but it means the estate will carry another mortgage, I'm afraid. My lawyer is trying to work out a payment schedule with the Duchess."

"This he can do?"

"We believe so. She seems to be much more reasonable than her husband," Robert replied bitterly.

Poirot took his leave and descended the stairs to the basement. He spotted the Bateses in the boot room and introduced himself before ascertaining the identity of the couple. "I followed closely the case of Mr. Green in the newspapers. I believe you were arrested for his murder," he said to Anna.

"And she was released," Bates reminded him.

Poirot nodded. "As I knew she must be. Such _imbécillité_." He then turned his attention to the husband. "You yourself spent time in prison for the murder of your first wife. Arsenic again, was it not?"

Bates bristled at that. "I was exonerated after it was proved I couldn't have done it."

"Do not make yourself distrait. I am interested only in the death of the Duke of Crowborough. Do you know anything that could aid me in this matter?"

"What could we know?" Anna replied. "We'd never even met the man."

Poirot thanked the two profusely before making his exit. From the corner of his eye, he saw the pair exchange a look of concern.

Being something of a gourmet, the aroma of cooking attracted the detective's attention. He followed his nose to the kitchen where Mrs. Patmore and Daisy were preparing dishes for that evening's upstairs dinner. Upon seeing him, both women were struck dumb. "I am Hercule Poirot. I have been asked by the Duke's family to investigate his murder."

Mrs. Patmore found her voice first, asking, "Uh—how can we help, Mr. Perot?" Daisy merely stared doe-eyed at the dapper, foreign gentleman with his tight, patent leather shoes and large mustache.

"I'd like to ask you about the meal you made on the night of the murder. Were any of the dishes served individually rather than the diners being allowed to help themselves?"

The burly cook paused to remember. "The Charlotte Rousse would have to be sliced and set before each person if that's what you mean."

" _Précisément._ That would be done here?"

"No, the footmen would do it upstairs."

"So the poison could have been in the food after all," Poirot mused quietly to himself.

But Mrs. Patmore heard him and became incensed. "I hope you're not implying that we had something to do with it."

"No indeed, madame."

The cook was building up to a rage. Poirot wisely backed out of the kitchen while Daisy tried to calm her down. The last words he heard were "—Lucrezia Borgia—"

* * *

Andy was alone in the servants' hall cleaning silver. He had become very withdrawn since the murder. Even Daisy couldn't raise him from his gloom. He was lost in thought and didn't hear M. Poirot enter the room.

"You must be Mr. Parker."

Andy leaped to his feet, nearly knocking the silver to the floor. "Yes, but I'm called Andy here, Andrew upstairs."

The detective indicated for him to sit. "I am Hercule Poirot. You have heard of me?"

"No, sir."

Poirot seemed unreasonably surprised at that. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the glove he had found the day before. "Do you recognize this?"

"It's a footman's glove. We wear them when we wait at table."

"And Mr. Barrow? He wears them also?"

"A butler never wear gloves." Andy appeared shocked at the very idea.

"I found this under the Duke's bed yesterday. Do you know how it got there?"

"I-I suppose Mr. Molesley must have dropped it. He was seeing to the Duke."

"Quite likely. You would have no reason to be in his bedroom?"

"No. Why would I?" A bell on the wall began to jangle wildly. "That's for me. I have to go now." Andy rose and hurried out of the room, leaving Poirot staring after him with a curious expression.


	11. Chapter 11

The next morning, Poirot left the home of Sgt. Willis with whom he was staying. He had gotten directions to the Carsons' cottage, and as it was a mild day, he made the journey there on foot. His knock was answered by a large man who stared disapprovingly down at him. "May I help you?"

"You are Mr. Charles Carson? My name is Hercule Poirot. Might I take up a few moments of your time?"

"Uh—please, come in." Clearly, nothing his wife had told him prepared him for the appearance of the Belgian detective. "Would you care for some tea?" Without waiting for a reply, he poured out two cups.

"You are most kind." Poirot noticed that the other man's hand shook as he raised the cup to his lips.

"It's a kind of palsy," Carson explained. "It's the reason I was forced to retire."

"You wished to remain at Downton Abbey?"

"I thought I would die there, but it was not to be," the former servant spoke regretfully.

"Now there is another butler."

Carson's expression showed his distaste.

Poirot tried to hide his smile. "You do not approve of the efficient Mr. Barrow?"

"He's only had the position for a few months, and already a guest is murdered." His tone suggested that Thomas was somehow remiss in allowing it to happen.

"Had you met the Duke before?"

Mr. Carson's face hardened. "He stayed at the Abbey once before the war. We all thought that he and Lady Mary would make a match of it, but from what His Lordship said, it was the money he was after."

"How unpleasant for her."

Carson looked affronted. "It was a lucky escape if you ask me. He wasn't half good enough for her."

"And yet, Lord Grantham entered into business with him."

"Yes." The pensioner's expression said he wasn't about to discuss His Lordship's business affairs with this peculiar little foreigner.

Poirot seemed to understand. "I think that is all. I will leave you now."

"You will catch the killer, won't you? I hate to see the family living under a cloud of suspicion."

"Have courage, _mon ami_. Hercule Poirot is on the case."

On his way back to the village, he encountered Henry Talbot passing in his motorcar. "Can I offer you a lift, monsieur?"

Poirot accepted gratefully. In truth, his feet were beginning to hurt. "I understand you were at university with the Duke."

"We were in the same year at Oxford."

"You knew him well?"

"Fairly well, I suppose."

"Then you were friends?"

Henry hesitated. "We were friends for a time, but as I remember, we fell out."

"Why was that?"

"I don't recall. It was all rather long ago now. I hadn't seen him since."

"Can you think of any reason why someone would want to murder him?"

"None at all."

* * *

Thomas was seated in his pantry when he heard a knock on the door. He looked up to see Andy enter, closing the door behind him. "May I speak with you, Mr. Barrow?"

"Of course."

Now that he was there, Andy seemed unsure how to begin. Finally, he blurted out, "Do you know why that French detective asked me about the glove found in the Duke's room?"

Thomas smiled indulgently. "First of all, he's Belgian, not French, and secondly, it's a footman's glove, and you're a footman."

"But how would a glove of mine get into the Duke's bedroom? It must have been Mr. Molesley's."

"Most likely. Did you tell him that?"

Andy didn't reply. "They can't lift fingerprints off a glove, can they?"

"I don't believe so." Thomas could see the worry on the young man's face, but he didn't want to push too hard for fear of frightening him away. "Andy, is there something you'd like to tell me."

"No, Mr. Barrow." The footman turned and exited the room as Thomas leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

* * *

M. Poirot ducked into the pub for his luncheon. Immediately, he spotted a well-dressed man sitting down at a corner table. He recognized Tom Branson from Sgt. Willis' description. "Mr. Branson, I believe? My name is Hercule Poirot. You will permit me to join you?"

"Please," the younger man agreed politely. They both ordered the lunch special, and Tom a pint of ale.

"Why are you not eating with the family?"

"I'm on estate business today. It just seemed easier."

"I am sorry to bring up a subject most indelicate, but I must ask. How well did you know the Duke? I believe he once stayed at Downton before the war."

"Yes, but that was before I was hired."

"Hired?"

"I came to England to work for Lord Grantham as his chauffeur. I married his youngest daughter, Sybil, and when she died, I stayed on as the estate agent."

" _Tiens, tiens._ Then you are in a unique position to know both the Crawley family and their servants."

"I suppose so."

"Is there anyone in that house whom you believe could have done this thing?"

Tom considered the question carefully before answering. Finally, he spoke, "No, there's no one."

After luncheon, Poirot found himself once again at the Abbey. He was shown into a sitting room where Lady Grantham was composing a letter. She rose to greet the man and perched delicately on a small sofa. "Won't you have a seat, monsieur? I'm afraid you'll find me all alone today. Lord Grantham and Lady Mary are in York, and I'm not sure where Lord and Lady Hexham have gone off to."

"I had hoped to speak with Lady Mary," the detective admitted, "but it will wait for another time."

"May I offer you anything?"

"You are too kind, but no. I have just taken lunch with Mr. Branson in the village."

"You must come here to dine with us one night. We'd love to hear all about your famous cases. What about Saturday?"

"It would be my pleasure, madame."

"Good. We eat at eight o'clock."

As he was leaving, he ran into the housekeeper crossing the great hall. "You must be Mrs. Carson."

"Yes, but I'm still known in this house as Mrs. Hughes."

"Earlier, I took the liberty of paying a call on your husband."

"Oh?" she inquired pleasantly.

"I thought him very loyal to the Crawley family."

"He is indeed," the housekeeper agreed with a wry smile. "As I know well enough."

"Something has been troubling me, and perhaps you can help. On the night the Duke died, why did he not ring the bell when he was taken ill?"

"He may have done, but you see, there's no longer anyone downstairs to answer a summons during the night. We used to have a hallboy on duty for that very purpose, but the practice has been allowed to lapse."

"I see. Thank you for clearing up that small point."

* * *

That evening, Poirot, Sgt. Willis, and Insp. Japp were gathered in the Sergeant's small sitting room after a forgettable dinner at the pub where Poirot's appearance had caused quite a stir. The two policemen were sipping scotch which Poirot politely declined. "Perhaps a tisane or even some cocoa?" he suggested hopefully.

Willis became apologetic. "I'm afraid I don't have any cocoa or, or that other thing." The middle-aged man enjoyed a bachelor's spartan existence.

"Do not trouble yourself. It is of no matter."

Japp began. "So what have you got to tell us, Poirot?"

"I have learned that the Duke took his drink to bed with him on the night he died."

"What difference does that make if he was poisoned before he went up?" Willis asked. As Mrs. Hughes had once observed, the Sergeant was not the brightest button in the box.

Japp took his meaning immediately. "So the drink could have been tampered with by someone who came to his room that night. They could have slipped the stuff into the whiskey when his back was turned."

"Then it's not looking very good for Mr. Molesley," Willis said. He liked the quiet, modest man, but he knew that often, the murderer was the one person whom no one would suspect.


	12. Chapter 12

Saturday morning found Poirot back at the Abbey. He was eager to speak to the remainder of the house's inhabitants before the dinner that night. Barrow showed him into the drawing room where Lady Mary was seated on a small sofa flicking idly through a magazine. "M. Poirot," the butler announced in a loud, clear voice.

"What?"

The diminutive detective was immediately apologetic. "I am so sorry to intrude, but I wish to consult with you on a tiny matter. I may be permitted to sit?"

"Please." A flustered Mary indicated a nearby chair.

"You are too kind. I am puzzled by different accounts of things I have been told. You said to Insp. Japp that there was no _attachement_ between you and the Duke before the war."

"That is correct."

"Yet when he stayed here, your family believed it was to make to you the proposal."

"The Duke and I were friendly, monsieur, nothing more. We chatted at parties and danced together at balls. Yes, my family had hoped we would make a match, and possibly his visit here encouraged them in that belief. But he left the next morning without a word to me, and that was the end of it."

"Did you believe he had come here for the purpose of making you an offer?"

Mary hesitated. "I thought it possible," she admitted grudgingly.

"You must have been upset then by his sudden departure."

She tossed her head proudly. "Not at all, I assure you. I didn't give him another thought until I learned that Lord Grantham had gone into business with him."

"I thank you for clearing that up for me. Would it be possible now for me to see Lord Hexham?"

"Of course." She rang the bell, and once more the butler responded. "Barrow, will you find Lord Hexham and tell him that M. Poirot wishes to speak with him?"

"Very good, m'lady."

In due course, the Marquess appeared. Mary rose to go. "I'll leave you to it."

Bertie took a seat, not really sure why he had been summoned.

Poirot began. "I understand from Lady Hexham that you came into your title only recently."

"Yes, I inherited the title and estate when my cousin died of malaria last year. It was quite a shock, both his death and my succeeding him."

"You were very fond of this cousin."

"Cousin Peter was a very special person."

"How so exactly?"

"He was sensitive and artistic. Country life didn't really suit him, so he was rarely at Brancaster Castle for long. He spent most of his time in Tangiers painting scenes of the local life there. He was very 'delicate,' you understand."

"Delicate?"

"Yes." Bertie eagerly searched the detective's face for some sign that he understood.

"He was not married?"

"No. It was understood that he would wed another cousin, but I'm not sure that would have happened."

"Ah, I begin to see. He was not what they call a 'ladies' man?' "

Bertie wriggled in discomfort. "No. My mother never approved of the way he lived, but she didn't understand that I was devoted to him."

"Had you met the Duke before coming here?"

"I may have seen him at Brancaster with my cousin, but we were never introduced. You see, I was merely the agent at the time."

Poirot moved on. "You are recently married also. Does your mother approve of Lady Hexham?"

"At first, she had her reservations, but now I believe she admires her greatly."

"And the little girl?"

"My mother loves Miss Marigold like a grandchild."

"Thank you, Lord Hexham. That is all for now."

Poirot made his way downstairs once more. He encountered a startled Daisy exiting the kitchen and inquired, "Can you tell me where I could find Miss Baxter?"

"Uh—I think she's out back with Mr. Molesley. You just have to go through there." She pointed to the back door leading to the kitchen courtyard.

"Thank you, so much."

He stepped outside to find the couple seated together on a small bench. As he approached, their expressions became noticeably wary. " _Bonjour._ You are Miss Baxter and Mr. Molesley, I am told. My name is Hercule Poirot. I am looking into the death of the Duke of Crowborough."

Miss Baxter was quick to speak up. "I'm afraid I can't help you. As I told the police, I saw him only briefly."

The teacher looked fearful. "I only met him the day before he died. Mr. Barrow asked me to valet for him during his stay."

"The Duke was grateful for your assistance?"

"Actually, he seemed a little out of sorts when I came to dress him that first evening. I don't know why."

"You accompanied him upstairs on the night he died?"

"I did."

"And he brought with him a glass of whiskey?"

"Yes, I remember him setting it on his night table."

"Now, Mr. Molesley, this is of the supreme importance, so you must think very carefully. Had he finished his drink when you left him?"

Molesley looked down at the ground, straining to remember. Finally, he replied, "I'm sorry, but I just can't be certain."

Poirot's face clearly showed his disappointment. He reached into his pocket and removed the footman's glove. "I found this under the Duke's bed. I believe you dropped it that night."

"I might have. I have a habit of stuffing them into the pockets of my livery. Perhaps one fell out while I was attending him. I could check now if you like."

"If it would not be too much bother."

The teacher scurried away, leaving Poirot alone with Miss Baxter. "Sgt. Willis has apprised me of your past. They do not know of it here?" Poirot asked her.

"Some of them do—Lady Grantham, Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Barrow, and Mr. Molesley. I haven't told the rest."

"Fear not, madame, your secret remains safe with Papa Poirot." The detective suddenly remembered something else. "On another visit, a person I did not know advised that I should take a closer look at the butler." He went on to describe the woman.

Miss Baxter laughed. "That sounds like Miss Denker, the Dowager's lady's maid. She's had it in for Mr. Barrow since he bested her when we were staying in London for a family wedding."

"She told me also that he is not a 'ladies' man.' " He was aware that he had just used that same expression in regard to Lord Hexham's cousin.

"I shouldn't pay her any mind."

"Then it is not true?"

Miss Baxter was torn between telling the truth and protecting her old friend. She didn't want to find herself back in prison for lying to an investigator. "Mr. Barrow has had a very difficult time of it. People haven't always been kind to him."

M. Poirot listened carefully to her words. "You are fond of him."

"We grew up together. He got me this job when no one else would hire me. I owe him a great deal."

Just then Molesley emerged from the back door and hurried toward them, holding out a pair of white gloves. "They were both still in the pockets. The glove you found in the Duke's room couldn't have been mine."

"You may have dropped it earlier that day or the day before," Poirot suggested.

"I wore the same gloves on both days, as they hadn't been soiled."

"I suppose it might have been down there for a while," Miss Baxter suggested.

Poirot shook his head. "There was no dust on it. No, it must have been left there only recently. When was the room last occupied?"

Molesley replied, "He was in the bachelors' corridor. I don't believe there were any bachelors staying since Mr. Talbot and Lord Hexham last year before the weddings."

"That's right," the lady's maid agreed.

"Then clearly, it was dropped by someone else," Poirot mused.

"But no one wore gloves except myself and Andy," Molesley pointed out. "And what would he be doing in there?"

M. Poirot's expression became serious. "What indeed."


	13. Chapter 13

Saturday night came, and the family and their guests were gathered in the drawing room before dinner. Once again, Lord and Lady Merton were there along with the Dowager Countess. Mary was voicing her displeasure that Cora had invited Poirot to join them. "I don't understand why you asked the man to dine with us when he's investigating us for murder. It's too ludicrous for words."

Robert agreed. "I think the whole idea is crackers."

Cora sighed. "M. Poirot is a world-famous private detective who has been commissioned by kings and queens."

"But I doubt that they ate with him," the Dowager interjected.

The door opened, and Barrow announced, "M. Poirot." Violet scanned the little detective from head to toe in amazement.

Cora was quick to welcome him. "We're so glad you could come."

"It is my great pleasure, madame."

"I don't think you know Lord and Lady Merton."

Isobel gushed, "It's an honor to meet you. Dickie and I enjoy following your cases in the newspapers."

"You are too kind," Poirot replied with a little bow.

Violet pursed her lips. "Yes, these things are always so amusing when they're happening to other people."

" _Comme c'est vrai_ ," the detective agreed.

Cora smiled apologetically. "This is my mother-in-law, Lady Grantham."

Poirot had heard much about the elderly Countess from Sgt. Willis. He was immediately reminded of his Aunt Joséphine, a very formidable woman indeed.

Barrow entered the drawing room again. "Dinner is served, m'lady."

They all proceeded to the dining room and found their seats. Thomas enlisted the hallboy, Billy, to help serve, as Mr. Molesley had declined to return. Poirot was in raptures throughout every course of the meal. "Such a delight for the palate."

"Where are you staying?" Edith piped up curiously.

"The good Sgt. Willis has generously allowed me to reside with him in the village."

Dickie addressed the elephant in the room. "How is the case coming on?"

"It progresses," Poirot replied enigmatically. "This is everyone who was here on that terrible night?"

"Except for my sister, Lady Rosamund Painswick," Robert answered. "She returned to town the day after the autopsy."

"Shopkeepers all over London were anxiously awaiting her return," Violet spoke dryly.

Cora chirped, "I think we'll go through."

The diners filed back into the drawing room for their coffee. Thomas served the detective a sweet, green liqueur. "His Lordship thought you might enjoy this."

Poirot accepted gratefully. "That is most kind."

"Alright, monsieur, it's time for you to sing for your supper," Tom joked. "We want to hear about some of your most baffling cases." Henry and Bertie added their encouragement also.

The little Belgian smiled good-humoredly. "I will tell you about my first investigation after coming to England during the war." He proceeded to detail the case of Lady Cavendish who had been a victim of strychnine poisoning while Thomas, Andy, and Billy quietly slipped away for their dinner downstairs. *****

* * *

The servants' meal was much less elaborate but none the less anticipated. Mrs. Hughes had already left to have supper with her husband at their cottage. The conversation centered on the famous detective upstairs. "I wonder that he would want to dine at a home where a guest had recently been poisoned," Bates mused.

"Surely you don't think anyone would try to murder him, do you?" his wife queried.

Mrs. Patmore bristled. "I hope you're not implying that the food has been tampered with in some way."

"I'm sure he didn't mean that, did you, Mr. Bates?" Miss Baxter tried to calm the volatile cook.

"Certainly not."

Andy's voice rose hysterically. "Why is he here at all? He's questioned all of us. Why doesn't he just go away?"

"Andy?" Daisy fixed him with a puzzled expression. The others were staring at him too. Barrow saw how upset he was and suggested they change the subject.

That night after the guests had left, and everyone was getting ready for bed, Thomas sought out Andy in his room. He found him studying an agricultural book. "I think we need to talk," the older man told him.

"What about, Mr. Barrow?"

"About your outburst at dinner. This has been going on long enough. I want you to tell me what's wrong."

Andy simply stared mutely at the floor with a look of misery on his young face.

Thomas hated to see him like that and urged gently, "I promise whatever you tell me won't leave this room." Receiving no response, he added, "I know it has something to do with the Duke."

Andy didn't speak for a long time. Finally, he muttered, "That detective thinks I killed him."

Thomas tried to reassure him. "I'm sure he doesn't think that. Everyone had access to those gloves. It doesn't prove that _you_ dropped it in his room."

"But I did drop it, Mr. Barrow," he admitted quietly.

"What?"

"On the day he arrived, he told me he was looking for a new valet and asked if I were interested."

"I hope you told him no."

"Becoming a valet to a duke would be a big step up for me."

"I thought you wanted to be a farmer."

"I do, but I reckoned I should hear him out at least. He asked me not to tell anyone. He said to come to his room after everyone was asleep and we'd talk about it then." Andy paused. "When I got there, he asked me if I'd ever been with a man. Then he started—touching me and kissing me."

Thomas felt like he was going to be sick. "I hope you got out of there."

"I went to leave, but he became very angry. He said if I didn't come back the next night and the night after that, he'd tell His Lordship I sneaked into his room and that I was the one who … " His voice drifted off in embarrassment.

"Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"He was a duke, and I'm just a servant, aren't I?" Andy replied angrily. "I didn't think anyone would believe me."

"Well, I believe you." Thomas blamed himself. How could he have allowed this to happen? "I'm sorry, Andy."

"It wasn't your fault, Mr. Barrow."

"I knew what he was like. That's why I asked Molesley to tend to him. I didn't want you anywhere near him." Then an awful thought occurred to him. "You didn't go back the following night, did you?"

Andy hung his head in shame. "It was late—after midnight. As I was walking down the corridor, I saw a man come out of his room."

"Did you see who it was?" the butler asked anxiously.

"It was dark, and I can't be sure, but I think it might have been Mr. Talbot."

Thomas was surprised at that. "Did you go in?"

Andy nodded. "The Duke was lying on the floor next to the bed. I could see he was dead, but I leaned over and felt for a pulse to make sure. I guess that's when I dropped the glove. There was nothing I could do for him, so I went back to my room and said nothing."

"I think you should tell the police."

The footman looked horrified. "I couldn't do that. They'd think I wasn't a proper man. What if the others found out? What would they say about it? And what about Daisy?"

"You didn't do anything wrong, and you have no reason to feel ashamed. Why not tell M. Poirot? I'm sure he would be discreet. Do you want me to talk to him for you?"

"No! You promised, Mr. Barrow. You said you wouldn't tell anyone."

Thomas held out a calming hand. "And I meant it. I won't say anything if you don't want me to, but I think you should tell him." He paused. "At least, think about it. Goodnight, Andy."

* * *

 ** _*_ The case that Poirot shared with the party that evening was recounted in _The Mysterious Affair at Styles_ , Agatha Christie's debut novel, published in 1920 in the US and 1921 in the UK. The book first introduced the world to her beloved Belgian sleuth, Hercule Poirot, as well as Scotland Yard Inspector, James Japp.**


	14. Chapter 14

Everyone at the Abbey was feeling the strain of the investigation. Each day the newspapers were full of lurid tales of the Crawley family. It was suggested by one that the unfortunate Mr. Pamuk might have been an earlier murder victim. In another, it was hinted that the late magazine publisher and Marigold's father, Michael Gregson, was really a German spy. Even the deaths of Lady Sybil and Matthew Crawley were brought into question. Henry and Tom were able to escape to their business in York, but while there, they felt curious eyes on them. The Crawley women seldom ventured outside the gates now, unwilling to face the veiled whispers and suspicious glances of the public.

Nor were the servants immune to all the unpleasantness. The prior conviction of Mr. Bates and the subsequent deaths of his first wife and Mr. Green were dredged up once more, causing the Bateses renewed distress. Miss Baxter's sentence for theft was published for all to see, devastating the timid woman who thought she had left her past behind her. After their initial surprise, the other servants rallied around her, but she remained downcast. Even the story of Mrs. Patmore's "house of ill repute" was once more a topic of unkind gossip.

It seemed to hit Bertie the hardest. He had grown silent and subdued since the murder, cringing whenever he saw himself or Edith mentioned in the papers. It was only a matter of time before the press unearthed the truth about Cousin Peter's secret life and his connection to the dead man—those weekends at Brancaster and trips to Tangiers. And what if they found out about Marigold, whom he had come to love as a daughter? He shuddered to think what his mother would have to say about it all.

His wife was quick to notice. "Are you alright, darling? You mustn't let all this upset you."

"Maybe it's time we went home," he suggested hopefully. "Then perhaps the press would let us alone."

Edith appeared shocked. "We can't leave Mama and Papa now, not before the murder is solved."

"No. Of course, we can't. I wasn't thinking," Bertie mumbled apologetically, looking deeply troubled.

* * *

Robert set out for a morning walk with Tiaa at his side. He soon found himself at the Carsons' cottage. The former servant was seated outside in a chair in the garden but rose automatically upon seeing the Earl. "Your Lordship!" Carson was surprised at seeing him there.

"Please, don't get up." Robert lowered himself into the chair beside him, the one usually reserved for Mrs. Hughes.

"Is there something I can do for you, m'lord?"

"No-no. I found myself out this way and thought I'd stop by and see how you're getting on."

"That was kind of you."

"Not at all. I seem to have a lot of free time on my hands these days. Lady Mary and Mr. Branson have more or less told me that they no longer want my help in running the estate."

"I'm sure that's not true," Carson demurred.

"After the debacle with the housing project, they don't trust me. I don't blame them really. I suppose everyone knows what a fool I was."

Carson kept silent. He had heard what happened, of course.

"The Duke threatened to sue to recover his investment, but where would the money have come from with no houses to sell?"

"They are going up now, though."

"Yes, but it meant taking out another mortgage. Happily, Mr. Murray was able to work out a deal with the Duchess that will allow us more time to repay the debt in exchange for a larger share of the profits when the homes sell. She's much more forgiving than her husband."

"If you'll pardon my impertinence, I must say I never approved of the man, not since he threw over Lady Mary before the war."

Robert nodded absently. "So there you have it. I'm just an old duffer who's been put out to pasture."

"I know the feeling," Carson responded dryly. "How is Mr. Barrow working out?"

"Barrow is competent enough, but it's not the same without you there."

The pensioner quickly changed the subject. "Is there any news about the murder?"

"I don't think so. That little Belgian chap keeps wandering in and out, driving everyone mad with his endless questions. Sometimes I wonder if it'll ever be over."

* * *

Cora and Mary were alone in the drawing room. They hadn't really talked about the murder case, hoping it would be over quickly and all would be as it was, but now it weighed heavily on both of them. "Who do you think murdered the Duke?" the Countess asked her daughter.

"One of the servants, I imagine."

"They didn't even know him. Why would they want to poison him? It doesn't make any sense."

"Maybe someone paid them to kill him."

"Who would want him dead?"

"His wife possibly. I should think she's glad to be rid of him."

* * *

Mrs. Patmore had gone into the village after breakfast to purchase some personal items. Now she was hurrying back to the Abbey as fast as her short, plump legs would carry her. She entered the kitchen and promptly dropped down into her desk chair to catch her breath. "Are you alright, Mrs. Patmore?" Daisy asked her with real concern.

At first, the older cook couldn't speak, but then she blurted out the news she had heard at the chemist's, "Someone found a body down by the river washed up on shore. It's Miss Denker. She's dead."

* * *

Insp. Japp and Sgt. Willis were already at the Dower House, having delivered the news to a visibly shaken Violet. "When did you last see Miss Denker?" Japp queried the aged Countess.

"Last night when I went up to bed."

"Did she mention that she was planning to go out?"

"No, she never said anything to me."

"Dr. Clarkson said she must have died sometime around midnight. What would take her down to the river at that time of night?"

"I couldn't tell you."

Sgt. Willis broke in. "It looks like she fell or jumped from the bridge."

"Suicide?"

"Did she seemed depressed to you, Lady Grantham?"

"Not that I noticed. Perhaps you should ask the other servants."

The Inspector closed up his notebook, and the two men descended downstairs. They spoke first to the cook, Mrs. Potter, and then to the maid, Betty. Neither woman could shed any light on the tragedy. Lastly, they met with Mr. Spratt. Japp asked, "Can you think of any reason for Miss Denker to be on that bridge last night."

"No," Spratt replied tersely.

"Did she often go out after putting Lady Grantham to bed?"

"She liked to drink and sometimes went to the pub, but that was usually on her half-days."

"Was she seeing anyone—some man from the village perhaps? Could it have been a secret assignation?" Willis inquired.

Spratt eyes widened in surprise. "I shouldn't have thought so. No, Sergeant."

Japp closed his notebook. "I think that's all for now."

That evening, the two policemen were once more seated at the pub having supper with M. Poirot. They were discussing the death of the Dowager's maid. The little detective nodded sadly. "I recall speaking to her at the Abbey on one of my visits there."

"The butler said she was fond of her drink. She could have been drunk and fell, or it could have been suicide, I suppose," Japp mused.

Poirot seemed to consider that. "It is possible, yes, or perhaps she was pushed from the bridge."

"A second murder—here in Downton?" Sgt. Willis exclaimed in disbelief. "It's not likely."

"Not unless the two deaths are somehow connected."

"What are you thinking, Poirot?" Japp saw the look of concern on his colleague's face.

"I think we are dealing with a most cunning, ruthless killer. Tomorrow, I must certainly return to Downton Abbey."


	15. Chapter 15

The next morning, Hercule Poirot found himself at the Abbey once again. At his request, the family members and their staff were assembled in the great hall. His expression was somber as he addressed the house's inhabitants. "Thank you for giving me your valuable time. As you know, I have been investigating the murder of the Duke of Crowborough. Now there has been a second death, that of the unfortunate lady's maid, Miss Denker."

Robert interrupted him. "But surely, that was just a horrible accident."

"It is my belief that she too was murdered."

"Are you saying that the two deaths are related?" Cora asked in disbelief.

" _Mais oui._ I believe they were both killed by the same person. I have spoken to all of you, but always I have not heard the whole truth. I must urge you to tell to me whatever it is you've been holding back. Until you do, you also may be in grave danger." He added, "Lord Grantham has most generously allowed me the use of his library where we may speak in private. Rest assured that Poirot is discretion itself."

When the group dispersed, Thomas approached Andy. "I think you should tell him that you were in the Duke's room that night. If someone saw you coming in or out and they tell him, it will look bad for you."

Andy nodded. "I think you're right, Mr. Barrow. Will you come with me?"

"Certainly, I will." The two made their way to the library where Thomas announced, "Andy has something he'd like to tell you, monsieur."

Poirot smiled encouragingly. "Ah, Mr. Parker, please come in."

"Is it alright if Mr. Barrow stays?"

"If you wish."

Andy took a deep breath and recounted finding the nobleman dead on the floor the night of the murder. "I must have dropped the glove then. I'm sorry I lied to you, but I was afraid you'd think … " His voice trailed off awkwardly.

Poirot seemed confused. "But why were you there at all?"

"He asked if I were interested in becoming his valet. He said to come to his room after everyone was asleep, and we'd talk about it."

"This was on the night he was killed?"

"No, the night before."

"And you returned once more the following night?"

The footman looked helplessly at Thomas who explained, "The Duke made unwelcome advances toward him that first night. He managed to get away, but the Duke insisted that Andy return every night of his stay or he'd report him to His Lordship."

"I see." Poirot nodded slowly, a look of growing understanding crossing his face. "Most unpleasant."

"You won't tell anyone, will you, Mr. Perot?" Andy asked anxiously. "I wouldn't want people to think—"

"I am interested only in finding the killer, nothing more."

The young man breathed a sigh of relief before remembering, "Oh, and I saw a man come out of his room on the night of the murder."

Poirot was instantly alert. "What time was this?"

"It was late—after midnight. He disappeared down the corridor toward the family rooms."

"Did he see you?"

"I don't think so, but I guess he might have."

"Had it not occurred to you that if this man were indeed the murderer and he thought you could identify him, that you too might be in danger?"

Andy was taken aback. The idea had never crossed his mind.

"Did you see who it was?"

The footman hesitated. "It was dark, and I can't be certain."

Thomas broke in. "You remember what you told me. You said you thought it was Mr. Talbot."

"But I can't be sure," Andy insisted.

The detective was curious. "Why do you think it might have been Mr. Talbot?"

"I don't know. He was tall."

Poirot turned to Thomas. "What men slept here that night?"

"Lord Grantham, Mr. Branson, Mr. Talbot, Lord Hexham, Andy, and myself."

"Messrs. Carson, Bates, and Molesley, they did not stay over?"

"No, they all returned to their cottages, and the hallboy was away that day and night to attend his sister's wedding in Leeds."

"Thank you for coming forward with your story, Mr. Parker. I wish, if I may, to speak to Mr. Barrow alone now."

The footman happily fled the library, relief written plainly on his face.

M. Poirot studied the butler carefully. His sharp eyes noted the ugly, pink scars on both of the servant's wrists. Thomas quickly pulled his sleeves down, hiding them from view. The detective let it pass. "Did you enter the Duke's room on the night he died?"

"No."

"You had previously acted as his valet, I believe."

"Yes. It was before the war. I attended him once in London and again when he stayed here the following year.

"Did he make also the overtures to you?"

Thomas didn't respond directly. "I knew what he was like. That's why I asked Mr. Molesley to see to him. I wanted to keep him away from Andy."

Poirot tilted his head to one side. "I ask now a most indelicate question, and I must beg your forgiveness. Were you and the Duke ever involved—romantically?"

Thomas sat in stunned silence for a long while before speaking. "We met in his hotel room that first summer whenever I could get away. When he came here the next year, he broke it off with me. I never saw or heard from him again until his recent visit."

"I thank you for your honesty. Be assured, Mr. Barrow, I will be as silent as the grave."

Thomas was curious. "How did you know about me anyway?"

"Miss Denker was the one to impart that information."

Thomas' face screwed up in disgust.

Poirot smiled with amusement. "You were not friends then?"

"We met when the family was staying in London. She was taking advantage of Andy to score free drinks at a gambling club. I figured out what she was up to and put a stop to it."

"You are very fond of that young man."

Thomas became angry at the perceived implication. "We were friends when he first arrived, nothing more. I'm the butler now, and it's my job to protect the people who work under me."

Poirot nodded understandingly. "It seems that to them you are kinder than to yourself." He gestured to the servant's scarred wrists.

"If that's all, monsieur, I must get on." Barrow turned on his heel proudly and exited the room.

Lady Mary and Henry Talbot entered together next, taking a seat across from the detective. Henry began, "We've neither of us been honest with you. I do remember why Philip—that is, the Duke and I fell out." He went on to relate the cheating incident at Oxford. "It was a very painful time for me, and seeing him here brought it all back again. I should have told you when you asked me."

"Thank you, Mr. Talbot." Poirot then turned expectantly to his wife.

Mary confessed, "I haven't told you the truth about my relationship with him either. I did believe he was going to propose to me before the war. In fact, I was certain of it. But when he learned that the estate and money were entailed away, he changed his mind and left. It was all so terribly humiliating."

"The loss was certainly his," Poirot replied gallantly. "Now Mr. Talbot, I must ask did you go into his room on the night he died?"

Before he could answer, Lady Mary said, "He was in bed with me all night."

Poirot smiled indulgently. "Perhaps it was when you were asleep."

Mary tossed her head. "With the baby almost here, I don't sleep well. If he had gotten up, it would have awakened me."

Henry agreed, "That's right, monsieur. I didn't leave our bed the whole night." The pair then took their leave.

A short time later, Bertie entered. "I wonder if I might have a word with you," he asked tentatively, taking a seat across from the detective.

"But of course."

"Lady Hexham and I weren't being completely forthcoming when we spoke the other day." He paused. "Miss Marigold is my wife's daughter. The Duke guessed the truth. I don't know what he planned to do with the information, but if the story got out, it would make things very—unpleasant for all of us."

"I had surmised already the identity of the little girl."

"Well, that's all really," Bertie mumbled apologetically.

"Lord Hexham, did you enter his bedroom for any reason on the night he died?"

The new peer looked genuinely puzzled. "No. Why would I?"

Poirot changed tacks. "I have discovered recently that he shared a certain _penchant_ with your late cousin."

"Oh?" Bertie looked very uncomfortable now.

"You said you saw him at Brancaster Castle when you were the agent. Why was he there?"

The Marquess chewed his lip nervously before finally blurting out, "He was Cousin Peter's lover."


	16. Chapter 16

Before leaving the Abbey, M. Poirot sought out the other family members. He found Lord and Lady Grantham and Tom Branson in the drawing room. "Might I intrude upon you to ask one little question before I make my departure?"

Robert gritted his teeth. He'd had enough of this strange, foreign gentleman and his "little questions." He tried not to let his annoyance show. "What can we help you with?"

"You are most kind. I have been told in confidence that a man was seen leaving the Duke's bedroom after midnight on the night he died. This person couldn't identify him except to say that he was tall."

"Well, that leaves me out, thank God," Tom joked.

"So it was not you, Mr. Branson?"

"No, it was not me," he replied with a chuckle.

"And you, Lord Grantham?"

"As I've already told both you and the police, I went to bed early that night with a headache and didn't wake until morning."

"Lady Grantham, you can confirm that this is so?"

Robert became angry. "Are you doubting my word?"

"I apologize most profusely, but these things must be verified if possible."

Cora patiently explained, "His Lordship was asleep when I went to bed and when I awoke. I have no reason to believe he left our room at any time during the night."

"Thank you for your help. I will leave you now."

The Countess rang the bell, and Andy quickly appeared. "Andrew, please show M. Poirot out."

"Yes, m'lady."

When the two men were alone, Poirot turned to the young footman. "I asked Mr. Talbot if he were the man you saw coming out of the Duke's room. According to him and Lady Mary, he never left their bedroom that night."

"Well, I did say I wasn't sure."

"Could the man have been Mr. Barrow?"

"No, he walked off in the direction of the family rooms."

"Possibly because he saw or heard you coming from the other direction. In the near-darkness, he and Mr. Talbot would look very similar."

Andy appeared troubled. "I don't think it was Mr. Barrow."

Poirot looked up at the footman and smiled. "Because you do not wish it to be so. You are a most loyal friend."

* * *

After luncheon, the detective set out for the Dower House. Spratt promptly answered the bell. "If you will kindly wait, I'll inform Her Ladyship that you are here."

"Actually, I wish to speak with you first, if I may."

The butler looked surprised but recovered quickly. "Would you mind coming downstairs to my pantry?"

Poirot nodded obligingly and followed the butler to a small room off the kitchen, closing the door behind him. "I was hoping you could tell me a little about the deceased lady's maid, Miss Denker. You knew her well?"

Spratt seemed uncomfortable with the line of questioning. "As well as I ever wished to."

"Can you think of any reason she should have been on that bridge in the middle of the night? A _rendez-vous romantique_ perhaps?"

"If she were seeing someone, I would have known. She would have boasted about it."

"Unless it was someone she didn't care to mention—a married man possibly."

Spratt paused to consider the detective's words.

"Do you think it likely she committed suicide?"

The butler shook his head. "She was much too fond of herself for that."

Poirot continued, "I met her only briefly, but she seemed like a woman who enjoyed knowing other people's secrets. Do you think she would ever use this information against them?"

Spratt remembered how she had threatened to expose the fact that he once sheltered his escaped-convict nephew unless he intervened to save her job. "I think it quite possible."

Poirot fixed him with an odd smile. "Thank you, Mr. Spratt. You have been most helpful. Now if you would, please take me to Lady Grantham."

The old woman was dozing in her armchair. She seemed to be so very tired these days. When the butler entered the room, she immediately awakened. "What is it, Spratt?"

"I'm sorry to disturb your nap, but M. Poirot is here to see you."

"I was merely resting my eyes," Violet insisted. "Show him in."

"Yes, Your Ladyship."

The diminutive detective slipped into the room and gave a slight bow to the elderly Countess. "I have come to offer my condolences on the sad loss of your maid."

"Yes—uh, thank you."

"She had family nearby?"

"In London, I believe. She will be buried there."

Poirot noticed that a knick-knack on the mantel was slightly askew. "You will permit me?" He straightened the item to his satisfaction while the Dowager looked on in disbelief.

"Why are you really here?" she inquired shrewdly.

"I came to ask if there's anything you can tell me about the death of the unfortunate Miss Denker?"

"What could I tell you?"

"Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to see her dead?"

"Any number of people, I should imagine."

Poirot smiled, reminded again of his Aunt Joséphine.

* * *

When Lady Mary was finally alone with her husband, she turned to him and asked, "Where did you go that night?"

"What night are we talking about?"

"The night of the murder, of course. I woke up and you were gone."

Henry smiled slyly. "After you told M. Poirot that I never left your side all night?"

"You know I'll cover for you. If you did kill him, I wouldn't blame you, but I must know the truth."

"No, I didn't kill him, and I didn't go to his room either. I couldn't sleep, so I went down to the kitchen for a glass of milk, that's all."

Mary let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank heavens. I've been so worried."

"Poor darling. I don't want you to be concerned with anything except having that baby. What are we going to name it anyway?"

* * *

The staff was gathered in the servants' hall for their dinner after a long day's work. Thomas sat at his place at the head of the table, ladling out lamb stew from a heavy, iron pot. When everyone had been served, he turned to Miss Baxter on his left and spoke softly. "You have to eat. You're getting too thin." Since the lady's maid's past had been made public, she had become silent and subdued.

"Yes," she replied absently.

"You shouldn't let this business get to you. You know everyone here is on your side."

She smiled at her old friend. "Thank you, Mr. Barrow. That's very kind."

"I mean it. You helped me out when I was making myself ill from those injections, and if you hadn't found me in the bath last year, I would have died. Now it's my turn to help you."

She lifted her fork to her mouth and began to eat.

* * *

M. Poirot, Insp. Japp, and Sgt. Willis were once again seated in the Sergeant's sitting room discussing the case. Poirot shared the results of his questioning from earlier that day.

"So the footman saw the killer leave the Duke's bedroom," Willis reiterated.

"No," Poirot corrected him. "He witnessed a man coming out of the room. This person he saw was not the murderer."

A puzzled Japp asked, "Why not?"

"After the man had gone, young Mr. Parker entered to find the Duke already dead. Remember, the arsenic had been administered several hours before his death. Is it likely that the killer would remain with his victim all that time and risk discovery? No, I think not, _mes amis_."

"Who was this mystery man, and why was he there?" the Inspector mused.

Poirot nodded sagely. "To know the answer to that question is to solve the case."

Willis changed the subject. "The coroner's report on Miss Denker says she died by drowning. It could have been an accident, I suppose, or it might have been suicide."

"No, the woman was certainly murdered," Poirot insisted, "by the same person who killed the Duke of Crowborough."

"But what connection could there be between a duke and a lady's maid?"

"None at all. I doubt they ever met."

Japp was becoming irritated. "Then what makes you think their deaths are related?"

The little Belgian looked affronted. "Poirot doesn't 'think.' He knows."

"Knows what?"

"I know who murdered both of these people and why they were killed."


	17. Chapter 17

The Dowager Countess was laid to rest the following week after slipping away peacefully in her sleep. The funeral was well attended with mourners coming from all over Yorkshire and beyond. Mr. Travis, the vicar, was effusive in his eulogy, praising her work for various charitable causes and her many decades as the benevolent mistress of Downton Abbey. Hercule Poirot was in attendance and afterward, sought out Lord and Lady Grantham to pay his condolences. "Please, accept my most sincere sympathy for your loss."

"It was very kind of you to come, monsieur," Cora replied. "You're welcome to join us back at the Abbey for a luncheon buffet."

"Thank you, but no. If I may, I wish to return on Friday morning at eleven o'clock to address your family and servants and everyone present on the night of the murder. I would ask also that you invite Mr. Spratt."

A grieving Robert opened his mouth to protest, but Poirot cut him off. "Naturally, I would not dream of intruding at such a time were it not of the utmost importance."

Cora answered for both of them. "Then, of course, you must come. I'll see that everyone's there." She added hopefully, "Does this mean you've solved the case at last?"

"Yes, madame, but I must speak first with the Duchess. _À bientôt._ "

* * *

The following day, Thomas found himself at the Dower House sharing a cup of tea with Mr. Spratt. He'd come to issue Poirot's invitation for Friday. Although the two men held the same position for members of the Crawley family, they didn't know each other very well. "So what will you do now?" Barrow inquired awkwardly.

"The family has allowed me to stay on here until the house is closed up at the end of the month. Then I'll have to find somewhere else to go. I've sent out replies to various ads, but I haven't heard anything back yet."

Thomas had been in a similar position the previous year and knew the chances of Spratt finding a comparable position were slim to none. He was reminded of his brief time working for Sir Mark and Lady Stiles and inwardly shuddered. "I'm sure something will turn up."

Spratt lamented, "The thing is I never believed Her Ladyship would die. I thought she would go on forever."

Thomas nodded understandingly. "Who found her?"

"When she hadn't gotten up by ten that morning, we became worried. After Miss Denker's death, there was no lady's maid. I asked the cook, Mrs. Potter, to check on her, thinking she might have been taken ill. She returned with the news that the Dowager had died during the night. Dr. Clarkson said it was her heart."

Thomas rose to leave. "Well, good luck to you, Mr. Spratt. If I hear of any openings, I'll be sure to let you know."

His next stop found him at Mr. Molesley's cottage near the schoolhouse. As class was out for the summer, the teacher was home and welcomed him inside. Thomas came quickly to the purpose of his visit, and Molesley agreed to return to the Abbey on Friday. After that, the conversation turned to the subject of Miss Baxter. "How is she, Mr. Barrow?"

"Not too good, I'm afraid. Since her past was exposed, she's been pretty down. She thought she'd left all that behind her. Now she believes that everyone is looking at her differently, both the people in the house and those in the village."

"But anyone who knows her must see she's not that person anymore—if she ever was," Molesley insisted gallantly.

"She's gotten very quiet and keeps to herself. She says she can't bear to see the judgment on other people's faces."

The gentle teacher looked troubled.

* * *

At last, Friday arrived, and the entire Crawley family and their staff were gathered in the great hall. Rosamund had stayed on after the funeral, anxious not to miss anything. Dickie and Isobel were there along with former servants Carson, Molesley, and Spratt. Sgt. Willis and Insp. Japp were also in attendance.

Poirot stood before them, studying the expectant faces that had become so familiar to him. "I thank you all for being here. As you know, several weeks ago, I was asked to look into the death of the Duke of Crowborough at the request of his family. After questioning all of you at some length, I am now able to reveal the person who was responsible for both his death and that of the lady's maid, Miss Denker."

The crowded room had gone silent in anticipation of learning the killer's identity, but as Insp. Japp could have told them from experience, Poirot would not be hurried.

"At first, I understood that the Duke could only have been poisoned by someone at dinner or later in the drawing room. That eliminated the housekeeper, the cooks, the valet, and the lady's maids since they were not present in either room. However, I later learned that the Duke had taken his whiskey upstairs with him and that someone could have slipped him the poison there. That opened up the possible suspects to everyone who was in this house that evening, so now I had only to find the motive. Many of you had a prior acquaintanceship with him. Did someone here bear him a grudge?"

Several members of the assembled party fidgeted nervously.

"From the start, I knew I was not being told the whole truth. Many of you had secrets that you wished to keep hidden from Poirot, but I was patient. In time, all would be revealed. When it was told to me that a tall man was seen leaving the Duke's room in the middle of the night, I asked myself who was he and what was he doing there. Every man sleeping in this house denied it being him. After weighing all the possibilities, I came to the conclusion that it could only be Lord Grantham himself."

Robert felt everyone's eyes turn to him. He explained, "The Duke had threatened to ruin me over the housing development project. I came upstairs after dinner and located my service revolver. I must have been mad. I lay in wait, pretending to sleep, all the while biding my time. When I was sure Lady Grantham was asleep, I went to his room to do the deed, but when I got there, I found him already dead. I hurried back to bed, unaware that I had been seen."

M. Poirot nodded. "Yes, it is as I suspected. You retired early in order to plan the crime."

"I didn't kill him. I may have intended to, but it wasn't me."

"No, you did not kill him, Lord Grantham. Someone else had already seen to that." The little detective looked about. "Through my investigation, I discovered that the Duke was not a nice man. There were several here with a reason to hate him: old scandals, broken romances, family secrets. But was it enough reason to murder him? It was not until the maid, Miss Denker, died that the fog lifted, and I began to see the truth at last. Having met her on one occasion, a little idea began to grow in my head. I spoke to Mr. Spratt who confirmed it. It was then that I knew. I knew, but there was no way to prove it."


	18. Chapter 18

"But who was it?" Robert asked impatiently. "Who was the murderer?"

"It was your mother, the Dowager Countess."

"What?" the Earl shouted. There were loud gasps from the others.

"If you would allow me to explain, everything will soon be made clear." Poirot removed several folded pages from his inside breast pocket and began to read aloud:

 _To Whom It May Concern,_

 _This is my signed confession to the murder of the Duke of Crowborough. I have written it in exchange for M. Poirot keeping silent until after I am dead and buried. This heart, which many of you don't believe I have, has finally reached its end. Dr. Clarkson assures me it is only a matter of weeks now or even days._

 _On the morning of the murder, my son came to see me. He was distraught after being swindled out of a fortune by some crooked builders, and the Duke had threatened to ruin him. I cautioned him not to do anything foolish, but I was worried about his state of mind when he left. That evening when I arrived for dinner, I watched him carefully for any sign that he was planning to take matters into his own hands. When he went up to bed after dinner, I knew what he was plotting. I had brought along a little tin of arsenic that I always kept on my dressing table. When the drunken motorist drove through the gate, and everyone ran to the windows, I noticed the Duke's drink sitting unattended by his chair. I saw my opportunity, and I took it, adding a large quantity of the poison before joining the others._

 _Why did I do it? Had I not killed him, my son would have, and he would most certainly be hanged. I knew even if I were caught, I would not live to stand trial. I thought I had gotten away with it until my maid, Denker, began to put the pieces together. Once she learned that the poison used was arsenic, she remembered that my tin was missing when she tidied up my room that evening. She demanded money to keep quiet. I told her to meet me on the bridge at midnight and I'd pay her there. In her greed, she never questioned why. I went upstairs that night as usual, but I slipped out again after Spratt locked up._

 _I meant to kill her by pushing her over the side of the bridge. The rails were not high, and it would have been an easy matter even for a feeble, old woman like myself. However, when I arrived, I saw that she was very drunk. Now you might not believe what happened next, but it's the truth. She stumbled and fell over the side of that bridge. I did not push her which makes her death an accident. I'm not sure that M. Poirot quite believes me, though._

 _He came to see me and presented me with the solution of the Duke's murder. I told him he had no proof, and he agreed. But he reminded me that as long as the case remained unsolved, the family and their servants would continue to live under the shadow of suspicion, so we hit upon an answer. I would give him this written confession which he would hold on to until after my funeral. So there you have it. I am a murderer. I did what I had to do for the family, and I won't apologize for it._

 _Violet, Dowager Countess of Grantham_

Poirot looked up from the letter to a sea of stunned faces. Lady Mary was the first to speak. "But how did you know it was her?"

The little detective smiled. "From the start, she reminded me of my Aunt Joséphine, a very _grande dame_. I remembered that my aunt was in the habit of ingesting small amounts of arsenic, a practice common among ladies of the Victorian era. It was thought to make the skin appear whiter. It would be an easy matter for the Dowager to slip a small tin of the poison into her handbag."

"With the death of the lady's maid, all became clear. She had no connection to the Duke, and she wasn't present on the night of his death. So why was she killed? I formed a theory that she had uncovered the identity of the murderer and was blackmailing that person. A talk with the butler, Mr. Spratt, convinced me that it would not be out of her character to do so. This led me to believe that the killer must be a person of some wealth which excluded the servants. As a lady's maid, Miss Denker would have the most intimate knowledge of her mistress, all of which again pointed to the Dowager Countess.

"I put before her the evidence. When I was done, she admitted the truth, providing the missing motive. In exchange for her admission of guilt, I agreed to wait until after her death. I felt I had no choice. There was no real proof, and without her confession, I could not hope to close this case."

"She did it to save me," Robert said emotionally as the family gathered around him. The others were shuffling about uncomfortably now. Cora gave a little nod to Barrow, and he ushered the staff downstairs.

The servants' hall was soon buzzing in shocked disbelief, and no one but Thomas noticed Miss Baxter slip silently out the back door. He hurried out to join her, promptly lighting a cigarette. "Quite a surprise that."

"Yes."

"At least, it's over."

"It's over for them anyway," the woman spoke morosely.

"You've got to find a way to put your past behind you for good. If you forget about it, everyone else will too."

"I'll try, Mr. Barrow." She managed a weak smile.

Thomas returned inside and located Mr. Molesley, telling him where to find her. The teacher seemed unsure what to do, causing Thomas to roll his eyes. The man was truly hopeless. "For God's sake, go to her."

* * *

The following days passed quietly until Lady Mary went into labor. She was promptly taken to the hospital where several hours later, she gave birth to a baby girl whom she named Violet Mary Talbot. The birth signaled a new beginning for the family as they began to heal from their ordeal.

Lord and Lady Hexham had stayed on until the baby was born, but soon it would be time to return to Brancaster with little Marigold. Edith had only one thing left to attend to. She made her way to the Dower House to seek out Mr. Spratt. He was surprised to find her standing on the doorstep. "Lady Hexham!" He led her into the drawing room where all the furniture was cloaked in protective coverings. He peeled back the fabric from a small sofa, so the two could be seated.

"How are you, Spratt?"

"As well as can be expected," he replied gloomily.

"I was wondering if you'd found another place yet," the Marchioness inquired.

"Not yet, m'lady. I've sent out inquiries, but I haven't heard anything back. There aren't many butler positions to be had. I'm going to stay with my sister until something turns up."

"Well, I have a better idea. Our butler is retiring soon, and I thought you might like the job."

Spratt's mouth dropped open. "I would be in charge of Brancaster Castle?"

"There's a lot more staff than you're used to, I'm afraid. Do you think you're up to it?"

"Yes, m'lady. I can do it." He didn't want to let this opportunity slip away.

"Good. That's settled then. You can ride back with us in the morning, and our butler will show you what you need to know." She rose to leave.

"I'll be ready. Thank you, Your Ladyship. Thank you very much."

Soon after Spratt received his good news, the Abbey was the site of a celebration downstairs. At long last, the hapless Mr. Molesley proposed to the long-suffering Miss Baxter. The two were married the following month with Thomas leading the bride down the aisle. She seemed happy at last and was once again able to look forward to the future.

Time passed, and after the initial outcry died out, the murder of the Duke of Crowborough faded into the memories of the fickle public. Insp. Japp had long since returned to Scotland Yard to file his report while M. Poirot moved on to his next case, the disappearance of a famous, Russian ballerina. Sgt. Willis was back to settling petty village disputes, and for the people who lived and worked at Downton Abbey, everything slowly returned to normal which was just the way they liked it.


End file.
